Padraic's Cross
by Rogue Knight1
Summary: A dark enemy, a deadly rival, a holy quest and a web of deadly intrigue. Don't take my word for it, read the reviews.
1. Gotham

Padraic's Cross  
  
Cold it was in Gotham, cold as ever it had been in the monastery, with a biting wind that screamed like the damned on Judgement Day, a wind that blew fast and fierce through the stone canyons of this evil city. I hated it then, hated it for its cold, for it's strangeness, for it's corruption hidden beneath a thin veneer. It was my opinion then that few cities could more closely resemble hell. I had not been to Bludhaven then.  
  
My name is Donal Mac Namara, brother of the Hidden Way, one of those charged with the keeping of certain things best left untouched. My tale begins some five years back, in Gotham, the devil's own city...  
  
Chapter 1  
Gotham  
  
  
The shadows cast themselves across the roof of the Gotham City Museum, and a shadow moved among them. This shadow was alive.  
  
Batman spotted the movement from his observation post atop the cathedral's belltower, a block away, and switched on his IR lenses. Adult male, dressed in black, wearing some kind of rucksack, and wearing, a broadsword on his back. Not a local boy, then. As Batman watched, the thief cut the glass skylight, first carefully eliminating the alarm wires with what appeared to be some kind of acid, fastened his line, and slid down to the museum's main chamber. Batman moved out.  
  
The thief was moving quickly,. Time was short. He jogged through the long echoing hall, heading for the Ancient Europe display. He rounded the corner and went through the archway, scanning the chamber for his objective.   
  
There. In among the Celtic and Saxon relics, dirty and battered and unremarkable, was the treasure he sought. He punched through the glass, and reached for his prize.  
  
His midsection caught fire as the force of an unanticipated blow sent him back, down to the marbled floor. He rolled out of the fall, and came up with sword in hands.  
  
"Next time you want easy pickings, try Metropolis. Put down the sword." Standing between him and the glass case was a giant, constructed from shadows and darkness, horned like a demon, with huge black wings fluttering behind it. Its voice was like thunder.  
  
"Batman. Sure and I've heard of you." The would-be thief stood firm, unmoving. "Some say you're no man at all, but a demon from the pit. If that be so, then you are powerless against my protector, and I need fear you not."  
  
"I'm not a demon. I'm worse than anything hell can send. Put down the sword, or I'll show you what I mean."  
  
"If a mortal man you are, then I can best you in combat. Stand aside." Batman seemed to remain motionless, but a small piece of the shadow he was wrapped in cast itself out, a dark whirling bat-shape, attached to it's master by a slender cord. The little-bat wrapped around the sword-guard, and Batman jerked on the line. Taken by surprise, the thief watched his weapon skitter away across the smooth floor.  
  
"My work is important, more so than you can imagine. Stand aside, or I'll throw you aside!" The thief took a ready stance, right foot forward, hands raised in an agressive guarding position. Batman stood, waiting.  
  
The thief lunged, striking empty air as Batman side-stepped, whirling around and throwing a kick, only to have the vigilante catch his foot, and twist. He went flying to the ground, and that should have been the end of it, but he recovered himself, kept his feet, and charged again. Batman launched a forearm strike at his head, and he ducked, redirecting his downward momentum into a fierce uppercut, catching Batman on his chin, and following up with a knee driven into the detective's abdomen.  
  
Batman sagged into the blow, let himself grow limp, then writhed in his adversary's grip, siezing his black tunic-front and throwing him, rolling backwards with the momentum. The two stood and faced each other again, this time with a new respect for their opponent's skills. The thief ran for the display case again, and Batman moved to intercept, trying to tackle the stranger, but the black-clad man leapt high, and vaulted over Batman, who was pushed to the floor.  
  
The thief reached the case, seized the prize, and turned to run, but a batarang looped past him, and he was entangled in the polymer line. Batman pulled him in close and inspected him.  
  
The man was dressed in black wool, simple tunic and pants, with a hood that covered the top of his head, and a scarf over his face. He had heavy leather sandals on his feet, and a leather bag at his side, which Batman rifled through. Several coils of rope, three grapnels, a couple of throwing knives, and a small flask that must contain the acid he'd used earlier. The kind of gear Catwoman might carry. He unmasked his bound prisoner, and studied the man's pale young face. Dark red hair and beard, cut in a most unusual way. The forehead was shaved up to the top of his head, except for a thin line of hair left above his eyes, looking like a headband.  
  
"Medieval Irish tonsure. Why is a monk robbing a museum?" Batman demanded.  
  
"So you recognise the corona. I am Donal Mac Namara, brother of the Hidden Way, and no thief. I only want to reclaim what belongs to the Brotherhood."  
  
"You mean this?" Batman picked up the item from where it had fallen on the floor. "Why does it belong to you?"  
  
"It doesn't." Batman whirled to face the soft voice behind him. He had not heard anyone approach.  
  
"How many masked swordsmen are there tonight?" he growled. The newcomer was small, wiry, clad in black from the top of his masked head to the soles of his tabi-covered feet. Batman spared a second glance for the tabi. Japanese sock-shoes were a rare sight on the feet of Gotham burglars. He also had a sword on his back, but not a european broadsword of the kind that the monk had carried. It was a Japanese katana, single-edged, bow-curved and long-hilted, sheathed in black laquered wood.   
  
"That item belongs to me now." The newcomer moved faster than almost anyone Batman had ever seen as he snatched for the object, but Batman was almost as fast. He pulled his hand back, and caught the other's wrist. The dark-clad man pulled and shifted, and Batman was thrown high and hard. For such a small man, he was tremendously strong.  
  
Landing smoothly on his feet, Batman put the object back in the broken display case, and stood facing his new adversary. "It doesn't belong to you yet. You need to take it first."  
  
"That looks to be a simple matter. Only you stand in my way." He leapt easily six feet into the air, grabbing a decorative banner overhead, and swinging himself up onto the flagpole it hung from. He jumped forward, flipping around as he landed softly, now between Batman and the object.  
  
"You've studied ninjetsu."  
  
"Very astute, caped crusader."  
  
"So have I." Batman jumped high and to the left, connecting feet-first with the wall, and pushing off even as he pulled and threw four bat-shuriken, landing and rolling, coming up directly in front of the ninja, whose arm now had three of the tiny black throwing blades embedded in it. Blood oozed out of the wounds, but he made no noise, and his eyes showed no acknowledgement of the pain as he plucked them out and let them drop.  
  
The ninja drew his sword, and lunged, cutting a diagonal stroke aimed at the juncture of neck and shoulder, quick as tought. Batman spun to the side and threw a vicious kick to the man's ribcage. He hadn't been quite fast enough, and blood dripped from his left bicep. They both wheeled, Batman reaching at his belt for a pair of batarangs, taking one in each hand as he met the ninja's next charge, parrying Japanese steel with triple-hardened titanium. He turned again, and again faced the blade. He flipped backwards and jumped to the side to gain time and space, hooked a three-foot length of line to each 'rang, and held them like nunchuka.  
  
The katana came for him again, cutting low and thrusting high, and he twisted evasively as he spun his makeshift weapon, trying to get a clear shot in. Not easy. His opponent's weapon had the longer reach, and the keener edge. He rolled under, swung up, and wrapped the cord around the ninja's right arm, pulling tightly at it. The batarangs were wrenched from his grip as the shadow warrior twisted away, using his momentum to add impetus to a vicious horozontal slash. Batman wasn't there to recieve the killing blow, however, having rolled across the marble floor to where, forgotten all this time, the monk's sword had fallen. He scooped it up, and faced the ninja again.  
  
The black-clad assassin stood in the guard position called Chudan no kamae. Right foot ahead of left, but both feet pointing forward, sword held with the left hand, the power hand, gripping just above the pommel, and a fist's span away from the navel. The right hand, the control hand, held loosely right below the guard, pointing the sword towards the opponent's eyes. Batman, recognizing the superior speed of the lighter bladed katana, chose Jodan no kamae, sword held above the head, ready to bring down with devastating force.  
  
They came together with a silent thunderclap, all energy and lethal grace. The ninja lunged, thrusting, trying for a tsuki throat jab, and Batman swept the surprisingly light broadsword down in a smooth parry, following through with an up-sweeping cut that forced the ninja to give ground. Batman feinted high, kicked low, and lunged in to close the distance, locking guards with his opponent.  
  
"You fight like a samurai, gaijin. Where did you learn?"  
  
"I had good teachers." Batman tried to force the grips down and push off, but the ninja was holding fast.  
  
"So did I, gaijin. And I don't have to limit myself to fighting like a samurai!" The dark warrior pulled back then, turning his backstep into a roll, and his roll into a jump, pushing off of the far wall and soaring up into the air, grabbing the flagpole again and swinging up and over, launching a half-dozen shuriken throwing stars as he did so, and coming to rest behind Batman, and once again in reach of his prize.  
  
"Now, gaijin-samurai, this trinket does indeed belong to me. Sayonara!" He turned and bolted, running with incredible speed across the slick marble floor. Batman, whose cape had sheilded him from the shuriken barrage, tossed the sword away and moved in pursuit. Following came the forgotten monk, who had worked free of his bonds and recovered his sword. Left behind in the Ancient Europe room were three batarangs, ten shuriken, and a broken display case, with the label "GOLD CROSS: IRISH, BELIEVED TO DATE FROM THE SIXTH CENTURY."  
  
**********  
  
The ninja was faster than Batman, and stealthier. He had almost lost the man twice in the dark corridors, but always managed to stay one step behind. Now he neared another one of the big display rooms, devoted to the Age When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth, and watched as his quarry entered the larger chamber, and moved out of his field of vision.  
  
Batman was anticipating an ambush attempt when he left the hallway for the wider space, but nothing came. His prey, it seemed, was just trying to evade him. That would not happen.  
  
He scanned the room carefully, using normal, IR, and Night Vision lenses. Nothing visible, but that was to be expected when hunting a ninja in a dark room. What he could see were the three skeletons, two allosaurs attacking a rearing sauropaud, aisles of smaller bone fragment displays, timelines, interactive charts, and three animatronic dromeosaurs hunched over a realistic-looking kill, their robotic feasting halted until the morning, when they would be turned on again.  
  
There. Under IR scanning, the Jurrasic swamp foliage glowed slightly. He was behind it, and he was regulating his body's temperature, deliberately keeping it as low as possible. Batman knew of only twelve men who could teach that technique. He was one. This ninja must have found another.  
  
Time for biographical probing later. He pulled his bolo launcher, a device he'd modeled after the de-cel lines he used, launching a heavy projectile rather than a drilling grapnel head. Firing, he moved forward, batarang ready in his other hand. The ninja leapt up, over the launching line, and threw his own grapnel, hooking it to an allosaur's jaw and swinging across the room, over Batman's head. Batman threw the 'rang, cutting the ninja's line, and dropping him to the hard floor, where he hit like a cat, and rolled up, running again. Batman chased, but a scattering of spiked balls across the floor forced him to delay just long enough to draw and fire his de-cel line into the sceiling. Swinging across, he came down right on top of the ninja, who now stood locked in a wrestling hold with the strange monk, who had evidently managed to get ahead of the shadow warrior.  
  
Batman dropped a handful of sleeping gas pellets and donned his mask. The two combatants halted their fight, the monk dropping to ground while the ninja put on his own gas mask. Batman threw a roundhouse punch that sent the ninja sprawling, and jumped on top of him, struggling to remove his mask for a quick and easy finish. The ninja had other plans, and writhed like a mad serpent, twisting and striving, almost managing to slip free of the vigilante's grasp. Batman hit him a sharp, quick blow to the side of the neck, and he stopped struggling.  
  
Batman stood and dragged the ninja aside, binding his wrists and ankles with plastic ties, and relieving him of sword and bag of tricks.   
  
"Comm link Hermes beta seven."  
  
"Oracle here."  
  
"Contact GCPD, attempted museum robbery, two suspects, one of the-" He was cut off as a harsh blow to the back of his cowled head sent him sprawling. Rolling over, he saw the ninja, loose from his bonds, recover his gear, and run for the window. "Cancel that. I still have some work to do." He ran after, groping in his utility belt as he moved.  
  
The ninja swept the sheathed sword in a hard arc, shattering the glass, and stared out at the five-story drop below him. Batman came at him then, throwing a batarang with one hand, and three of his shuriken with the other, the ninja parried the batarang, and dodged two of the shuriken, but a third one lodged in his hand, and he dropped his sword.  
  
Batman tackled him, threw him to the ground, and grasped him by his collar. "This ends now." He growled.  
  
"Not yet, Batman. You and I still have business with each other. And I still have one or two pressing engagements elsewhere. Forgive me for not staying to chat, gaijin-samurai, but I have an appointment I simply can't miss. Enjoy your evening." With that, he snapped the hard edges of his forearms out, breaking Batman's grip, and rolling backwards out the broken window, and down. Batman peered out after him. He had vanished entirely. Good. Now he had an edge in the game.  
  
"You just let him escape with the cross!" Shouted the monk, who had recovered from the light dose of gas and moved to the window. "That relic is more precious than you can possibly know, and more dangerous, in the wrong hands!"  
  
"He hasn't escaped. He only thinks he has. I planted a tracker on him just now. Come. If you want the cross to be recovered, help me get it back." He pulled a palm-top computer from his belt, and activated the tracking mode. Good. Already the ninja was moving faster than a man on foot, and headed directly out of the city. In that direction, there was only one logical destination.  
  
"Where are we going?" The young monk demanded.  
  
"Bludhaven." 


	2. The Monk's Tale

Mind I yet that long, dark ride, with the devil's own brother, seemingly, for company. The Batman was curious about me, and rightly, for our meeting had been under strange circumstances. I knew him for an ally, I think, which is why I told him all that I did...  
  
Chapter 2  
The Monk's Tale  
  
The young monk followed the dark vigilante out of the museum, where a car was waiting for them. No, not a car, that word was insufficient. It was large and long and black, streamlined and fearsome, its cold dark lines sweeping back into two bat-winged fins that came out long and low from the rear, a cockpit nestled between them. It was smooth, it's finish unmarred and featureless, but Donal Mac Namara had the sense that there was more to it than met the eye.  
  
Batman touched a control on his belt, and the tinted glass slid open. He motioned the monk to enter, which he did, shifting his broadsword off his back as he did so. Within, he was amazed at the array of controls and displays, a confusing jumble of images and buttons that seemed enough to control a fleet of automobiles, not just this one.  
In the driver's seat next to him, the dark knight sat, his black cape furled around him like the wings of a sleeping bat. He started the engine and pulled out, moving at a great rate of speed through the streets of Gotham.  
  
"Explain." He said to his unlikely passenger.  
  
The monk leaned back in his seat, staring out the window at the whirlwind-shifting scenery. "I am Donal Mac Namara, a brother of the Hidden Way. My order is a very old one, founded by Saint Padraic of Ireland, called Patrick, formed for a very great purpose. The saint knew that there were many things in the world that had great worth, and great power. Relics, ancient and precious, and dangerous in the wrong hands. So he formed a secret monastic brotherhood, hidden away from prying eyes, with a charge laid on them to find and guard the treasures of the faith. This we have done, throughout the centuries.  
  
"We have always been a martial order, for we are guardians, and to guard we must be warriors. I have been regarded by my superiors in the Brotherhood as our best swordsman, and the best at the arts of stealth. So, when word reached them of a very great treasure indeed, come to light in this city, I was the one chosen to reclaim it, and place it where it can be safe-guarded."  
  
"The cross?" Batman asked.  
  
"The cross. Know you, that is no common symbol, but a thing of great value, and great power. It was blessed by Saint Padraic himself. I was sent here to take it, and return it to our monastery, before it could fall into the wrong hands."  
  
"The ninja?"  
  
"I was not expecting any competition, much less a Shadow Warrior, but it does not surprise me. It seems that someone else has learned of the cross, and this person has dispatched an agent to claim it. Whoever it is, they must not succeed. The cross must not be used for evil!"  
  
"It won't. I'm going to take it, and return it back to the museum."  
  
"The museum is no safe place! It must go to the monastery!"  
  
"We can discuss this later," Batman growled, "we've reached Bludhaven."  
  
"Good. What shall we do now?"  
  
"I will go after the ninja. You will follow my lead. If you don't, you'll be bound and handed over to the police."  
  
"Don't worry, Batman. Sure and I'll play by your rules. For now." 


	3. Bludhaven

On entering Bludhaven, Batman ordered the car's computer to show the location of someone or something called Nightwing, a name that meant nothing to me then. He was somewhat surprised by the location he was given...  
  
Chapter 3  
Bludhaven  
  
Shinochi Tsumane, master of countless hidden arts and chief agent of the Shadow Dragon ninja clan, knelt on the tatami-matted floor, His wounds bound, the Irish cross safely tucked away in his satchel, there to remain until he handed it over to his client. For now, he was dealing with a different employer. Before him sat Jiro "Joey" Tanaka, the man who lead the Bludhaven Yakuza contingent. Tanaka was a huge man even by western standards, a giant among other Japanese. He stood more than six feet high, and weighed three hundred pounds if an ounce. His body was covered with colorful and intricate tattoos, a sure sign of long membership in Japan's mob, and he lacked both pinkies and a part of his left ring finger, another indication of his long tenure and dedication to the yakuza. He was enthroned on a large leather chair, dressed in a colorful silk yukata, fingers steepled over his solid belly. Encircled around the dimly lit edges of the room were eight of his best enforcers, merciless killers all.  
  
"My masters have informed me that you desire my services, Tanaka-san." Said the kneeling ninja.  
  
"Your masters are quite correct. I have a task that requires the skills of a ninja, and not just any ninja. I have need of a master, silent, invisible, and deadly. The leaders of the Shadow Dragon gave me your name."  
  
"I hope I may be able to live up to their faith in me. Describe your problem."  
  
The gang lord heaved his bulk out of the chair, and walked to the immense window that overlooked the cityscape. His office was on the thirtieth floor of this new building, and finely appointed in a mixture of traditional and modern styles, the floor covered in traditional Japanese tatami with a massive desk sitting on one end, a huge window at the other. Light was provided by a miniature chandelier, which hung at the center, spreading it's illumination outwards until it faded into shadow by the walls.   
  
Joey Tanaka began to speak, his voice low and gravelly. "As you know, I am the master of this city's yakuza. All our illegal work is directed by myself, and it is I who have the responsibility of expanding our powerbase. This is no easy task. Bludhaven, while magnificent in it's corruption, is not the criminal paradise it seems to be. There is one man, and one man alone, who holds this city in his hands. This one controls almost everything, and he is jealous of any threat to his power. Before I can fulfill my duties by expanding our operations, he must be removed."  
  
Shinochi nodded his masked head. "You speak of the man called Blockbuster."  
  
"Indeed. With him out of the way, there will be a power vacuum here, and we can move to fill it."  
  
The ninja pondered for a time, then at last spoke. "What you ask will be difficult. Roland Desmond is extremely well guarded. The price must be high indeed for this task."  
  
Joey Tanaka had evidently been expecting this. With a grunt, he withdrew a large briefcase from behind his throne-like chair, and opened it. Within were bundles of twenty-dollar bills, many, many bundles. "This is your down payment. One million US dollars in cash. Upon completion of your assignment, you will be given an additional four million. After that, the Shadow Dragon will recieve a tribute of ten million a year for the next ten years."  
  
Shinochi Tsumane nodded. "Hai. These terms are satisfactory. Know, Tanaka, that if you fail to pay your debts, I will personally exact retribution."  
  
The hulking yakuza boss paled at the thought, and nodded. "Be assured, I will keep my bargain. Now, we sha-" He swallowed the rest of his words, staring fixedly at what was suddenly transpiring. The great window was shattered into ten thousand million shards of flying glass, and in through the hole swept a dark-clad figure, masked and armored, a fighting stick in each hand.  
  
Tanaka's thugs, up to then engaged with watching the ninja, turned with admirable swiftness to face the new threat, drawing their handguns within a heartbeat. It was almost fast enough.  
  
Two were dropped when the masked man landed on them in his initial entrance, and a third was kicked into the head, and tumbled to the floor. Another pair were struck in the side of their skulls by the blue-and-black assailant's escrima, and yet another was disarmed when a shuriken flung by the stranger buried itself in the back of his gun-hand.  
  
The other two had their guns out, Glock 9 millimeters equipped with silencers and extra-sized clips. The first had his gun knocked away from him with one blow from an escrima stick even as the second stick was thrust into his solar plexus, dropping him to ground. The second got off a shot, but his haste made waste, and the bullet went wide. He never got a second chance, a boot to the side of his head leaving him unconscious on the tatami mat.  
  
"You've overreached yourself, you know that, Joey?" the intruder said, grinning at the bulky man. "Now I'm going to have to hand you over to the police, and you know how much they love assassination plots aimed at their boss. You should have listened to mom, gone into used car sales. Or sumo." He produced a long slender cord, and moved to bind the trembling Tanaka, but never made it to him. A dark blur threw itself at him from the shadowed corners of the room, knocking him to the henchman-strewn ground.  
  
"You must be the one called Nightwing." Shinochi Tsumane stood, katana in one hand, a large throwing star in the other. "How many black-clothed men must I encounter tonight?" Nightwing picked himself up and faced the ninja, searching out of the corner of his eye for his escrima sticks.  
  
"Yeah, I'm Nightwing. You must be, no... let me guess...Evil Pajama-Wearing-Man?"  
  
"You fight as if trained by Batman, but the fact that you have a sense of humor belies this. Who are you beneath that mask?"  
  
Nightwing didn't bother to reply, instead rolling over to where one of his sticks had fallen, scooping it up and using it to parry the ninja's sudden lunge. Jumping over a henchman, he ducked another sword-stroke, and grabbed up his other stick. He threw a kick at the ninja, and almost lost a foot for his trouble. The katana went through his kevlar armor like a razor through wet pasta, and only Bat-trained reflexes allowed him to jerk back in time. As it was, he had a long gash on his shin.  
  
'This is NOT how I wanted the evening to go,' thought the irritated vigilante. It was friday night, and he had a week's vacation ahead of him after the weekend, with Roy, after losing a a fairly complex wager involving the number of navel piercings on the cheerleading squad of the Superbowl-winning team, had agreed to take care of Bludhaven untill monday. Dick had plans. Sleep, for one thing, then, when he finally woke up, on Wednesday if he had his way, it would be time to spend some quality time with his favorite red-head for a while. All he needed was this kind of complication. Few things are more inconvenient to the man on a tight schedule than a sword-swinging master assassin.   
Nightwing flinched away from his adversary, his wound limiting his mobility, forcing him to take the defensive. He used his escrima to parry blow after blow from the razor-edged steel, but could not attack. He was being forced to give ground, and the bleeding gash on his leg was beginning to drain his reserves of stamina.  
  
'I can't hold out much longer,' he thought, as he ducked a cut and rolled to evade it's backswing. 'Batman might be able to win, but not me. It's hopeless!' Another slash, and another parry, another thrust, another evasion. Nightwing suddenly felt wall against his back. He was cornered, and he was about to die.  
  
'NO!' screamed a voice in his mind. 'I CAN win! Batman tought me all he knows, and some things I didn't learn from him. You're an acrobat, Dick, so start acting like one!' Mustering his energy and will, the last of the Flying Graysons turned a one-legged cartwheel, narrowly missing a disemboweling cut, sprang up into the air as high as he could, ignoring the pain in his leg, and shoved off the wall with his right arm, even as the left was reaching for the room's miniature chandelier. Swinging up onto the light fixture, he scattered a handful of smoke pellets across the floor, slapped a quick-application bandage on his leg wound, and rolled off, just as the ninja came up after him.  
  
Nighwing hung underneath the chandelier,then dropped into his smoke-cloud, letting the ninja follow as he rolled away, caught the sword-arm of the shadowy assassin, and gave it one of the less gentle twists that Batman had taught him in his use. The lethal yard of bow-curved steel dropped to the tatami floor, and Nightwing got in a good kick to the ribs before a thunderclap interrupted him.  
  
He and his adversary both turned to face the source of the cacophany, beholding the long-forgotten Joey Tanaka, pump-action 12-gauge in hands. He looked extremely pissed off, and he was aiming straight at Nightwing's masked face.  
  
Trouble like this he didn't need, not with a man who had almost killed him in hand-to-hand standing right next to him. If the shotgun blast didn't get him, a very, very, unlikely contingency, then the ninja would almost certainly be able to take fatal advantage of the diversion.  
  
"Well, crap." Said Nightwing. This whole evening sucked, as far as he was concerned. At times like this, he fervently wished he'd been raised by a saner man than Bruce Wayne. Charles Manson, for example.  
  
Further gloomy musings on almost certain death were interrupted rather abruptly when a mid-sized, bat-shaped projectile came out of nowhere and knocked the shotgun out of Tanaka's hands, even as another came whizzing past Nightwing's head to strike the ninja solidly in the temple. Nightwing wasted no time thinking, he acted. A solid kick to Tanaka's head put him down and out, and he turned to face the ninja yet again, but found that the man was busy, dodging a two-pronged attack from Batman and his new friend.  
  
"How many guys in black clothes are going to be showing up here tonight?" Muttered Nightwing as he darted towards the ninja. The japanese warrior was using his recovered katana to keep the two assailants at bay, but the stranger with Batman had a sword too, and was using it with skill to match the shadowy assassin. Batman, meanwhile, was trying to flank, using the double-layered kevlar of his cape as a shield against stray sword-strokes.  
  
Tsumane spun on the balls of his feet, and lunged at the caped crusader, thrusting the razor-like sword-tip at Batman's exposed lower face. Batman whirled aside smoothly, caught the ninja's right wrist in one hand, locking the left wrist with his arm, and twisted somehow, so that he seemed to remain motionless, but the ninja went flying through the air in one direction, while his sword went in the other.  
  
The ninja flew head over heels into Joey Tanaka's big chair, toppling the monstrously over-padded edifice to the floor. He himself, however, seemed not to touch down at all, grabbing the briefcase of money with one hand while he glided across the room to the open window. For a moment, the tableau was perfectly still. Shinochi Tsumane stood at the window, facing a half-circle of black-clad men in combat stances. Joey Tanaka, meanwhile, was groggily sitting up again, and staring at the arresting spectacle the ninja made sillouhetted against the night skyline.  
  
The ninja bowed, courteously. "I know you now, gaijin-samurai, and know what face lies beneath your mask.. You used the waterfall standing wrist throw. Only the Master could have taught that technique to you...And the Master only took one gaijin disciple." He gazed at Batman keenly with dark and stony eyes. Then he turned his gaze on Tanaka. "Consider our contract null and void, yakuza. I'll take the contents of this briefcase as compensation for my trouble on your behalf." So saying, the ninja flicked his wrist, and blood spurted out of the fat gangster's neck from around the shuriken embedded in him.  
  
The shadow warrior turned his gaze back to the dark knight. "I have not forgotten you, Burusu-san. Follow me, and we shall finish the business we started so many years ago. Sayonara!"  
  
And he was gone, as quick as a flash of black lightning, faded into the greater blackness of the cityscape below. Lying on the windowsill was the homing device Batman had planted on him earlier in the evening. 


	4. Detectives

It was Batman who first broke the silence. I made a move to pursue the thief and murderer, but he said "He can't be followed." He then turned to Nightwing, and I could see simply by looking at them that this was nothing less than a reunion of father and son, albeit a strange reunion...  
  
Chapter 4  
Detectives  
  
Batman looked at his onetime ward and pupil with a feeling of pride. "Nightwing."  
The younger man grinned at his former mentor. "Ordinarily, I'd be annoyed by your showing up here uninvited, but under the circumstances, I'm just glad you got here when you did. Good to see you, Batman."  
The dark knight seemed a little uncomfortable with expressing his emotions. "You were doing very well by yourself. I'm impressed."  
"Coming from you, that's like a congressional medal of honor. Who's your friend?" Nightwing gestured towards the sword-bearing monk.  
"I am Donal Mac Namara, a monk. The ninja stole something very precious, and I'm to get it back." He sheathed his great blade as he spoke.  
"Our aims are presently concurrent," said Batman.  
Nightwing nodded. "So everybody's after the ninja. Now, if only we could find him, we'd be all set."  
"He can't be followed, but he may be tracked. You haven't forgotten everything I taught you about detective work." Batman began to scan the room, looking for anything the ninja had left behind. It wasn't hard.  
"These shuriken are all etched with the same symbol. What is it?" asked Nightwing.  
"The Shadow Dragon. It's the emblem of a ninja orginization. Now we know his affiliation. What can you tell me about his sword?"  
"Japanese katana, traditional style, looks like an antique." Nightwing began to disassemble the hilt, and examined the tang of the blade. "I don't recognize the smith's signature, but it has to be at least three hundred years old. Looks like the steel is folded at least two hundred times. This is a masterpiece. And it has the Shadow Dragon etched on it."  
"A clan weapon, an heirloom of the Shadow Dragon. They won't be pleased with him for losing it." Batman frowned. "Comlink hermes beta seven."  
"Oracle here."  
"Access the batcomputer's files on the Shadow Dragon ninja clan. I need current known bases in the United States, and Japanese headquarters."  
"Roger that. Gimme a minute."  
Nightwing turned to Batman. "He said he recognized you. From where?"  
"It's a long story."  
"That means you don't want to talk about it, right?"  
Batman ignored the question and opened the channel to Oracle again. "What did you find?"  
"Your files are pretty up-to-date. The Shadow Dragon have outposts in New York, Los Angeles, and Honolulu. They seem to be headquartered somewhere in Hokkaido, Japan."  
"Batman Out." He turned back to the others. "He's going to head for New York. That's the closest base. After that, he will almost certainly return to Japan."  
"You sure you don't want to tell us where he knows you from?" Nightwing asked.  
"It was during my travelling years," Batman said, even more taciturn than usual.  
"Okay, that's the Reader's Digest condensed version. Any more details you'd like to share with us?" Nightwing asked.  
"Pardon me," Donal broke in for the first time, "but if we know where this ninja is going, should we not go there as well? He still has the cross, as you may recall."  
Batman nodded. "I have an aircraft. We'll be able to get to Japan long before he does."   
"We?" asked Nightwing.  
"Donal and I. There is no need for you to become involved."  
"Seems like I'm already involved. Besides, I want to hear the rest of the backstory here. I'm in."  
"Very well. Let's go."  
A moment later, the room was empty. 


	5. Sorcerer

We were not, as it turned out, the only ones travelling to meet Shinochi Tsumane. I could feel, even then, the malignant stench of dark powers at work, and was full wary. Wariness, without the grace of the Swift Sure Hand of the Almighty, would not be enough against our true foe in this affair...  
  
Chapter 5  
Necromancer  
  
He was tall and thin, but his strength was astonishing. His hair was long and black, gone gray at the temples, which he grew out like wings. He wore a beard that covered his chin, but remained unconnected to his sideburns, and he was clad in long silk robes, charcoal on ebony, a silver pendant hanging down on his chest, a pentagram, the ancient symbol of the Horned God, a pentacle inverted and insribed in a circle. The pentagram in turn was insribed in the center of a six-pointed star, often called the Star of David, but in this context possessing a much different, darker, meaning. His name was Simon Magus.  
At least, that was what he called himself. Whatever his mother had decided to call him when he lay squalling in her arms some forty-five years ago, it had been shut away, along with all the rest of his past, before the coming of the Silent Brothers.  
That was what he called them. He was ten when they came to him, shadows and whispers and coal-glowing eyes in the dark, speaking secrets in hushed voices. No one else could see them, and no one else could hear them. They told him he was special, gifted. They were right.  
The Silent Brothers told him things, and gave him instructions, guiding him along a path which he could not see clearly. They were whispering in his ear on the night when he had taken the knife from the kitchen, gone to his mother's room, and cut her throat, letting the blood run out in it's crimson floodtide across her cheap sheets, soaking into the ratty old mattress and dripping onto the carpetless floor. They told him how to cut her lifeless body, how to arrange it in the proper sacrificial array, the contortion pleasing to them, what symbols of evil power to write with the blood on the dingy fly-specked wall.. They had told him how to hide the knife, wash himself, arrange things so that it looked like a stranger had done it. They were very proud of him. Much, much, prouder than she had ever been of anything he'd done.  
They showed their favor on him then, telling him how to escape from the orphanage, telling him where to go, how to find other men that the Silent Brothers spoke with. They showed him the way to Jacobi Taylor of the Dark Circle, practicer of necromancy and black magic, a man in search of an apprentice.  
Taylor had dubbed the boy Simon Magus, a name chosen whimsically. Simon remembered Taylor telling him who the first Simon Magus was, a stage magician from the Bible, who had tried to bribe the apostles into giving him the power to work miracles. Think on it, boy, Taylor had said, a wizard who has tricked God into giving him a share of holy power. A man like that, he can draw from both sides, and precious little can stop him.  
Simon Magus had thought about it.  
He became adept over the years, in time eclipsing the work of his teacher. When that time came, Jacobi Taylor became another sacrifice to Simon Magus' Silent Brothers, and Simon Magus replaced him as one of the thirteen masters of the Dark Circle, a shadowy orginization of dark intent. The demons from the pit that whispered in his ears also obeyed his requests, provided he followed the formulae. He was a mage indeed, with all the power Hell could muster for him. It wasn't enough to satisfy him.  
Simon Magus sat before a computer terminal in a very fine room, within a very large mansion. His powers gave him wealth and influence, as did his position within the Circle. The end it served was the acquisition of the one thing his dark sorceries could not give him: A share of holy power. Now, the man on the other end of his vid-phone connection had something which could give him what he sought so ardently.  
"You have acquired the Cross?"  
On the other side of the Atlantic, the compact, nondescript Japanese man bowed in his chair. "Hai, Magus-sama. I was almost too late. One of the warrior priests you warned me of tried to claim it first."  
The Brotherhood of the Hidden Way. An annoyance, but hardly unanticipated. "I trust you finished him duly?"  
"Sumimasen, Magus-sama, but he was not the only interference. Batman also tried to stop me."  
Batman. Only to be expected. Damn him anyway, for meddling. "Deliver the Cross to me, and no one else. I will meet you in Hokkaido when you return there."  
Shinochi Tsumane bowed deeply. "Hai, Magus-sama. It shall be as you request." Simon Magus acknowledged the statement with a curt nod, and broke the connection. It was time to prepare for the journey. He knew that the ninja was keeping something from him, and he intended to know presisely what it was. Knowledge, he had learned, truly was power. 


	6. Japan, What Is

The three of us went to Japan by private jet, medium size, no markings. By the time we boarded, all three of us were not our usual selves. Disguised, then, we set off for Japan...  
  
Chapter 6  
Japan, What Is  
  
A tall, stooped Japanese businessman in an impeccable dark suit, almond-shaped eyes assisted by rimless glasses, head topped with slightly thinning silver hair, stepped out of the aircraft. Behind him came two young Americans, in expensive business suits, one with his hair and goatee blond and neatly trimmed, the other with his brown hair and beard grown long and shaggy.  
Yoshiuki Amano, the leader of the group, led the two Americans, Charles Lawton and James Carlyle, representatives of a large company sent to negotiate with Amano's employers, through the bustling chaos that was Narita international airport. The Japanese man led his charges easily through the rushing crowds and bewildering Japanese signs, got them through customs, and rented a car, driving them to a large town house in Tokyo.  
"So, what's the gameplan?" asked Lawton, reclining in an overstuffed chair and scratching his chin, itching from the adhesive that held his goatee on.  
"Get any available intelligence on Shadow Dragon headquarters, and on Tsumane's plans. Ambush him between Narita and the base, if possible." Answered Amano, with Batman's voice.  
"Sounds good. You need any help?" Asked Lawton/Nightwing.  
"No."  
Nightwing nodded. "Okay, I'll go get some dinner then."  
"We have plenty of rations here."  
"Yeah, we have rations. I'm going to get some food."  
"Mind if I come?" asked Carlyle, rubbing his scalp where the wig chafed his tonsure. Nightwing nodded, and he and Donal walked out, leaving Batman at his computer terminal.  
  
********  
  
Simon Magus entered the country in much the same way as Batman did, a private jet to Narita airport. He disembarked, and proceeded to his hotel, where the finest suite was reserved for him. Once there, he immediately secured all the doors and windows, and locked himself in the walk-in closet with his implements.   
The room was lit only by his ritual candles, five of them, each burning at a point of the chalk pentagram he inscribed on the floor. He stood, dressed in crimson robes, the long thin sacrificial knife in his right hand, a golden chalice resting on the floor beneath his left wrist. He slowly drew the razor-edged blade across his wrist, opening a shallow wound that welled with blood, and dripped into the chalice, one drop, two, three. He placed his thumb over the wound, and muttered a yoga charm. The bleeding, slowed, then halted.  
He took the chalice, and set it in the center of the pentagram. The bloody knife still in hand, he began to chant in a language long-dead, spoken by a race best forgotten. With the knifeblade he traced secret signs, dark sigils, into the dark air, his eyes losing focus as he began to stare into the other world.  
The demons who had been his companions since childhood showed themselves to him, burning brilliantly in the darkness of his second sight.   
//Mortal man, what do you wish?\\ hissed their voices in his mind.  
"I have need of your strength, princes."  
//We are always with you, son of man.\\  
"I need the fullness of your power, to fill my body. And I need mortal servants."  
//It lies in our power. Choose the men you would have us claim for you.\\  
"The two baggage handlers were men of unusual size and strength. They will be satisfactory. Have them search this city for any sign of the Brotherhood of the Hidden Way. I cannot afford any interference from their prayers."  
//Indeed, mortal brother, you cannot. It shall be done.\\  
"My thanks, spirit brothers. Please accept this blood offering."  
It was done. His sight was restored to him, and the blazing spirits faded, replaced by the dim glow of the candles, burned down considerably. The blood was gone from the chalice.  
  
******  
  
"Three writing systems?" Donal Mac Namara, now calling himself James Carlyle exclaimed.  
Nightwing, now called Charles Lawton, nodded. "Four, if you count the roman alphabet. Japanese is absurdly complicated, and the written form is nothing short of insane. I've never learned to read more than the most rudimentary stuff."  
The two young men were walking through a department store, or more precisely, the supermarket that occupied the basement level, looking for dinner. Donal, who had never before been farther east than Jerusalem, was filled with questions, and Nightwing was doing his best to answer them.  
"It started way back, with China. Most Japanese culture started out Chinese. Historically, they're great at adapting other cultures to serve they're needs. The Chinese invented a writing style called kanji, where every symbol represents a word. The Japanese assimilated that."  
"And the others?" Donal was looking dubiously at some of the articles being sold as food. They certainly bore some dubiousness, particularly, he thought, the dessicated squid in a plastic bag.  
"Japanese is a language made up of syllables, not letters. They have five vowels, and about forty consonant-vowel combinations. For variety, they do have a single consonant, 'n.' Japanese scribes developed two alphabets from the kanji symbols, using simplified shapes that represented different syllables. They're called hiragana and katakana, respectively."   
"Why two alphabets?"  
"No reason at all. With a few exceptions, the letters are all different, but the sounds are identical. Nowadays, katakana is used for words that started out as being foreign. Like 'beeru.'" He grabbed a six-pack of Asahi Super-dry. He pointed to a tiny booth, where a tinier old man sat, roasting pieces of meat on sticks over a bank of coals. "Ever had yakitori?"  
"No."  
"It's good." The two men went over to the yakitori stand, and Nightwing negotiated, in awkward but understandable Japanese, for two dozen. "And now we have dinner. Here, try one."  
Donal picked up one of the little meat-sticks, and bit in. It was delicious, flavored with sauces the monk had never encountered before. He wolfed down the meat and licked the juice off his fingers. They checked out with their handful of groceries, and started negotiating the narrow Tokyo streets headed for the townhouse.  
"Keep moving, and don't look back, but we're being followed." Nightwing murmured suddenly.  
"The two big guys we just passed a minute ago?"  
"Yeah. I have a bad feeling about this."  
Donal nodded. "Me too, and it's not just intuition. There's something wrong about them. Something...Unnatural."  
A voice came from behind them. "Sumimasen, Amerikajin. Courd we hab a word wiss you?"  
They turned, and the burly men stood facing them. In their hands they held box-cutters, razor-sharp, and as deadly in close quarters as any knife. Nightwing made as if to advance on them, but Donal put a restraining hand on his arm.  
"No, Nightwing. These are more than they seem to be."  
One of them smiled. He spoke again, and now his voice was changed, deeper, and without a trace of accent. "Very perceptive, praying man. Give up now. Your feeble god will be of no help to you here."  
Donal smiled grimly. "Get behind me, Satan. I know your kind, and I know you to be liars. Give up these unfortunate men, and go to the abyss that my Master has prepared for you!"  
For an answer, the two possessed men charged, blades-first.  
  
******  
  
"Oracle here."  
"This is Batman. I need you to access the computer systems of the Shadow Dragon clan. Copy any information on Shinochi Tsumane, especially his plans for returning to Japan."  
"Won't be easy."  
"That's why you're doing it."  
"Roger that. Oracle out."  
Batman began his own work, searching for airline schedules, flight plans, weather patterns, and blueprints of Narita airport, connecting the data into the beginnings of a plan. It all depended on the ninja's arrival time. He recieved the contact he was waiting for.  
"Batman here."  
"I got the data you wanted, boss. Downloading now." The information transferred, and Batman studied it. Good. Tomorrow evening, Tsumane would be returning to Narita, as he'd expected. Before the ninja headed north to Hokkaido, he was scheduled for a face-to-face meeting with a Shadow Dragon client, presumably the one who had commissioned the museum theft. The pieces of Batman's strategy fell into place. He would have to be careful, though, he mused as he studied the other information Oracle had gotten, the ninja's biographical dossier. Shinochi had always been a subtle planner, and never more dangerous than when he was cornered. The memories raised by that thought brought old pain back to his mind, pain he thought long-gone. Tomorrow then, there would at last be a reckoning.  
  
******  
  
Nightwing wasn't sure what was going on, or exactly what Donal and the strange man were talking about, but he knew how to deal with a lunging knife-fighter. A toe-kick to the inside of the wrist loosened his grip and gave him a lot of pain to think about, distracting him as Nightwing caught the wrist, twisted, and rolled onto his back, kicking into the attacker's chest and using the momentum of the lunge to send him into a graceful arc, which ended in a very un-graceful thud. Nightwing scooped up the dropped box-cutter, and snapped off the thin blade, tossing it into a gutter.  
Donal side-stepped his enemy, tossing off a quick knife-handed chop to the side of the neck. The man toppled like a Jericho wall, and the monk pocketed his blade. No one, remarkably, had been present to witness the fight.  
Donal strode quickly to the still-conscious man, who still lay where Nightwing had tossed him, taking up the dropped shopping bags. The Yakitori were scattered, and the six-pack was beyond hope of redemption. Twisting the bags into long slender cords, he tied the man's hands and ankles, quickly, and slid him up against a wall.  
"Spirit! Who sent you against us?" He demanded, his Irish voice firm and vibrant. The bound man spat profanities and blasphemies by way of response, twisting in the monk's iron grip.  
"Demon! By the Lord God, and his Son, the Christ, you will be still!" The man twitched, fell still for a moment, then began to writhe again. "Be still, I say! In nomine Patri, et Phili, et Spiritu Sancti!" The man, or whatever was using the man's mouth and throat, howled, but the thrashing halted.  
"By God's authority, be silent!" the moaning subsided to a wimper. Nightwing could only gaze in amazement at what was taking place. In all his years of fighting crime alongside Batman, and battling foes from countless worlds, some weilding powers of magical origin, he had never seen anything quite like this. Donal continued.  
"By the Christ's name, demon, answer my question. WHO SENT YOU AGAINST US?"  
The man/thing moaned piteously, but answered. "The sorcerer."  
"What sorcerer?"  
"No more of this, please! Let me go!"  
"ANSWER ME, in the name of Jesu!"  
The sputtering thing fell calm again. "He calls himself Simon Magus. Now please, let me be! Just don't say that name again!"  
"SILENCE!" Donal's face burned with anger. "Leave these men, you and your cohorts, and go into the abyss prepared for your kind."  
"NO! Please, no! Let us be! Let us stay in the world! Please, do not make us go to the abyss! You don't know what it's like, in the darkness, the cold..."  
"In the name of the Triune God, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, you are cast out! Begone!" The bound man, and his unconscious companion, began shuddering violently, moaning and gasping as though in intense pain. Donal murmered in gaelic until at last the trembling subsided, and the two men lay still. He rose wearily to his feet, shaking slightly with exhaustion.  
"It is done. Those will bother us no more. But there will be others."  
Nightwing stared at him, eyes wide. "What was that? What were they?"  
"What do you think? Demons, sent to hunt us. This Simon Magus must be after the cross, and wanted to keep me from interfering, so he sent those spirits into these men, and dispatched them after us."  
"How did you do that to them?"  
"Not I, but Christ. His is the power to cast out unclean spirits. I was merely his messenger in this."  
  
******  
  
They returned eventually, later than Batman had expected. They had yakitori, though, which reminded Batman of how long it had been since he'd eaten, and how much longer it had been since he'd had really good yakitori.  
"What kept you?"  
"Long story. Dinner first." No one argued. They ate, and Batman heard their story, which ended with Nightwing saying "so that's how our evening went; how about you? We have a plan?"  
Batman nodded. "We move tomorrow evening." 


	7. Narita

The Batman, it seems, always has a plan. So, when  
evening and the ninja came, we were ready. Of course,  
there was still the magician to be reckoned with...  
  
Chapter 7  
Narita  
  
  
Shinochi Tsumane disembarked from the 777 at 12:06  
P.M. Tokyo time, made his way through customs, with  
the aid of some carefully placed bribes, and found  
himself in the arrivals room of Narita International  
Airport.  
  
To call the place barnlike would be an understatement  
worthy of the ancient Spartans. It was simply huge.   
Across the floor sprawled the booths where countless  
airlines checked bags and distributed tickets, along  
the walls were spread vast numbers of benches for the  
hordes of weary travelers, and the high ceiling caught  
the echoing din and amplified it into a cacophany of  
linguistic chaos. Signs in Japanese and English  
pointed in all directions, towards departure gates,  
gift shops, restaurants, and bus stops.  
  
Tsumane deftly negotiated the polyglot mob, coming to  
rest at last in a secluded corner of the fifth-floor  
food court, where he had an appointment. Simon Magus  
was waiting for him. The tall mystic was dressed in a  
fine black suit, with a leather briefcase at his feet.  
Even to Tsumane's practiced eyes, the slight bulge of  
the shoulder holster was almost invisible.   
Apparently, this so-called magician preferred to back  
his magic up with more substantial armaments.  
  
"You have it?" demanded the hard-eyed mage.  
  
"I do, Magus-san."  
  
"Well, give it to me!"  
  
Tsumane raised one eyebrow. "You forget, Magus, you  
are my employer, not my master."  
  
"Very well. You want your fee?"  
  
"What I want, gaijin, is to be adressed with respect.   
You may be a netsuke-jin*, but your magic tricks would  
avail you little at this range, against a ninja  
master. Your firearm will serve no better."  
  
"Very well, ninja master," Simon Magus filled the  
words with sarcasm. "I apologize. Now, as to our  
business..."  
  
"I have your prize here." Tsumane held up a  
cloth-wrapped bundle. "You have the money?"  
  
"$5,000,000 U.S. dollars, in cash. You did specify  
American currency?"  
  
"Yen fluctuates too much. It's in the briefcase?"  
  
It was, and Tsumane was taking the case with his left  
hand, and handing the cloth-wrapped artifact to the  
wizard with the other, when the roof fell in on him.  
  
To be more precise, a piece of ceiling plaster with a  
six-foot diameter dropped from on high, and broke into  
a cloud of dust on the heads of ninja and warlock.   
Following close behind were three dark figures, masked  
and accoutred for battle. Donal Mac Namara, his  
broadsword in hand, hurled a small throwing club,  
which spun fiercely through the air, striking  
Tsumane's wrist and making him drop his bundle.  
  
"Shimmatta yo!" cursed the ninja, as he came face to  
face with Nightwing. Swinging his payment as a  
bludgeon, he back-stepped for room, but Batman came at  
him from another angle, and he was faced with a  
two-front battle, armed only with the briefcase. He  
used it to block a high kick from Nightwing, and  
ducked under it to riposte with a chop to the  
vigilante's right knee. Batman landed a sharp jab on  
the the ribs, but it only hurt. Swinging the case  
like a bludgeon, he forced Batman back, cape  
fluttering out around him like wings.  
  
Donal, meanwhile, rushed at the magician, eyes burning  
with righteous wrath at the man who would corrupt a  
holy relic. Magus, never a man trained to fight,   
knew he had no chance of victory in clean battle  
against a flame-hearted Irish swordsman. The wizard,  
however, had never been one for clean battle.   
Back-stepping rapidly, he reached for the shoulder  
holster and pulled a Glock nine millimeter, knocking  
off two crisp shots in the warrior-monk's direction.   
Donal, his mind aflame, did not notice the screaming  
crowd that ran for cover, any more than he noticed the  
near-miss as a bullet wizzed past his ear. He did  
notice the bullet that hit him, carving a burning line  
through his laeft calf, but the pain only inflamed his  
mind further.  
  
"Jesu!" He bellowed, both battle-cry and prayer, as  
he lunged with a furious abandon at the mage's  
gun-hand. His steel did not touch flesh, but he did  
send the Glock skittering across the floor. Simon  
Magus turned and ran.  
  
Tsumane spun suddenly from Batman and hurled the  
briefcase, with some passing regrets for the  
$5,000,000, directly into Nightwing's face. The  
impact knocked the man to the ground, and split the  
case open. It wasn't money that spilled out.  
  
"Netsuke-Jin! Damn you for a cheating gaijin!"   
Tsumane was enraged beyond any possibility of sanity,  
and he hardly noticed when Batman kicked him in the  
left kidney, sending him skidding forward, to slip on  
the pile of cabbage leaves lying on the ground where  
bundles of twenty-dollar bills should have been.  
  
Simon Magus muttered dark cantrips between panting.   
Physical exertion was not his forte. It was something  
that Donal excelled at, however.  
  
"Silent Brothers, come to me!"  
  
//What is your need, Mortal Man?\\  
  
"Strength, speed, and endurance, for a short time."  
  
//You may have them. For a short time.\\  
  
The demons rushed into his body, and he was faster,  
stronger. He turned and bolted past the monk, rolling  
under the swinging sword, rushing with all his  
magicked energy, straining for the cross on the  
ground. Donal wheeled and rushed after him.  
  
Shinochi Tsumane lay on his back, looking up at the  
sharp-eared cowl of the Batman, realizing that he was  
in deep trouble. Then the cops arrived.  
  
Japanese police are efficient, honest, and dutiful.   
They are by no means combat troops. So, when the  
foremost of the half-dozen white-gloved men shouted  
"Domatte!" it took Batman only a moment to level them  
with sleeping gas and flash concussors. A moment was  
all it took for Tsumane to get to his feet, and make a  
break for it. On the way to the balcony overlooking  
the lower floor, he kicked Nightwing in the side for  
good measure.  
  
Simon Magus grabbed the cloth bundle with a cry of  
triumph. Tearing the wrapping away, he held it aloft  
triumphantly. By the time he realized it wasn't the  
cross, but a chunk of lead, the aegis of his demon  
allies had faded away, and left him naked to the steel  
of the fiery-eyed warrior monk. This same monk now  
faced him with sword held aloft before him, the light  
glinting on its Damascus steel edge.   
  
The sorcerer howled vicious curses at his betrayer.   
Tsumane laughed a little bit as he jumped over the  
side, grabbed the edge of the floor, and swung himself  
into a window, flying out into the night in a shower  
of glass. Simon Magus decided to save further cursing  
for later and ran hell-for-leather towards the  
escalator, charging down the steps like lightning. He  
didn't have to shove anyone out of his way, for  
everyone had already fled. The monk came after, sword  
shining like a flame.  
  
Batman sped after Tsumane, but the ninja had made good  
his escape. He went back to where Nightwing was  
picking himself up off the ground.  
  
"Holy double double-cross, Batman!" said Nightwing,  
smiling hazily as he looked at the fake money and the  
fake cross.  
  
"Time for that later, 'Old Chum.' We need to get to  
Donal before he does something rash."  
  
Donal Mac Namara, warrior monk of the Hidden Way of  
Saint Patrick, had gone far beyond rashness. He  
pursued the running man through long hallways, sword  
brandished high, ignoring crowds, customs officials,  
security guards, and cops. He had eyes only for the  
man who consorted with demons and sought after holy  
things. He was filled to overflowing with a righteous  
anger, tinged with the berserker battle-madness that  
sparked his ancestors when they fought the Roman  
legions.  
  
"THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A WITCH TO LIVE!" he howled,  
drawing ever nearer to his panicked quarry. He would  
have caught the man long since, but not even his  
berserker rage could keep his wounded leg from slowing  
him down.   
  
Magus ran across a moving walkway, eyes wild, hands  
searching pockets for his mystic regalia. Lamb's  
blood, utterly useless. Nightshade, dried and  
crushed, though, had some potential...  
  
"Dead life bringing death..." he muttered as he ran,  
"...burn and catch in mortal's breath..." he fumbled  
open the vial, "...Nakron dey grka nak sruleth!" he  
finished, the last words of the charm spoken in a  
language only fifteen living people knew, as he flung  
the powder behind him. It seemed to spark with hidden  
fire, but it might have been a trick of the light.  
  
Behind him, the charging Celt ran straight into it.   
As he felt the first sparks against the exposed skin  
between his mask and hood, he closed his eyes and  
rolled low. This, along with the fabric that covered  
his nose and mouth, may have been what saved his life.  
Perhaps it was the prayer he spoke as he went down.   
He was scorched and singed by the poisonous fire of  
the mage's curse, but it was only skin deep.  
  
Simon Magus didn't care a great deal whether the monk  
lived or died, just as long as the madman stopped  
chasing him with that sword. He fled until he managed  
to find a bathroom with a large handicapped stall. It  
was occupied, but that was fine with him. The  
invisibility spell was a rite that involved human  
sacrifice. He would escape, he would claim his  
revenge on the ninja, and, above all else, he would  
hold the Cross of Saint Padraic in his hands.  
  
******  
  
Luckily for Donal, Batman and Nightwing got to him  
before anyone else did. They scooped up his sword and  
carried him away, taking the third contingency exit  
Batman had planned. All things considered, the  
engagement looked like a draw, except for Narita  
International Airport, the roof thereof, and an  
unlucky French businessman on crutches, who had chosen  
the wrong place and the wrong time to go to the can.  
  
******  
  
"Okay, now what?" Asked Nightwing, holding an  
ice-pack to his blackened eyeball. He was better off  
than Donal, who had a bandaged leg, which would take  
days to heal properly, and a face whose poultice was  
largely experimental, insofar as magicked Nightshade  
is a substance unfamiliar to medical science.  
  
"Tsumane still has the cross. Tomorrow he will return  
to the Hokkaido compound. Oracle has downloaded the  
plans and blueprints. We attack at 0100." Batman was  
physically the least damaged of the three, but inside  
his mind, the sight of Shinochi Tsumane's face had  
torn open deep, deep scars. There would, he vowed to  
himself, be a reckoning tonight.  
  
*Netsuke-jin literally translates as 'fox-man.' In  
Japanese folklore, the netsuke are believed to be  
malicious, magical spirits, who play cruel tricks, and  
work dangerous mischief. They are more like  
hobgoblins than demons, but they have strong  
associations with magic, and with the possession of  
bodies. 


	8. Japan, what was

It is ironic that, had our enemies been honest men, we would have reclaimed the prize then. Instead, we prepared to fight another day. I did not know then, and did not learn until much later, of the true story between Batman and the ninja...  
  
Chapter 8  
Japan, What Was  
  
Seated on the dais in the cavernous old dojo was an old man, his face a wrinkled map of times long past, his eyes deep pools of wisdom. His frail body was wrapped in a simple brown kimono, a homespun cotton garment that seemed much too large for the slight, withered bones it enfolded. Before him, arrayed in a semicircle across the tatami-matted floor, knelt a dozen young men dressed in white gis, the simple pajama-like garments worn by martial artists worldwide. Their belts were all without color. One of them stood out from the others, a tall, muscular youth, whose ancestry was clearly alien to his comrades. He shared the same dark hair, but his crystal-blue eyes and pale skin were utterly foreign to the olive-shaped brown eyes and yellowish tincture of the young men to either side. He was lean but muscular, exuding an aura of both power and grace even as he sat motionless at the feet of his teacher.  
  
The old man studied his pupils, then nodded to two of them. "Burusu-san, Tsumane-san. Show us what you have learned."  
  
Bruce Wayne, Burusu-san to the Japanese-speaking Sensei, rose to his feet, and faced his opponent. Shinochi Tsumane retained a distance between himself and the other students in the compound, even more so than Bruce, who was set apart by his blood and upbringing. There was something cold, detached, in the eyes of Tsumane, frightening. He and Bruce Wayne were the two finest out of the dozen. Wayne's eyes were also frightening, showing untapped and untappable depths of pain and rage.  
  
They faced each other, the compact Japanese and the tall American, bowing across the floor at each other, and advanced in their offensive guard stances. Bruce struck first, a quickly thrown kick at the other's knee, evaded with equal skill, and responded to with a leaping kick to the head. Bruce had been hoping Tsumane would choose that move.  
  
With a forward ukemi roll, Bruce brought himself under his opponent, kicking upward at the apex of his progress, striking his heel into the side of the airborne Tsumane's thigh. Bruce spun out and up, bringing his hand down in a knife-edged chop for the dropped foe's neck, a strike blocked by Tsumane's forearm and riposted with the downed man's good leg, which snapped over in a vicious and completely unanticipated kick, taking Bruce unawares in the forehead. Bruce fell back, and Tsumane sprang up, still favoring his wounded right leg, but able to take up a strong guard posture. Bruce began circling, moving, forcing Tsumane to react when he wished to remain motionless. Tsumane responded to the pressure, not by altering his defense, but by attacking. He stepped in, launching a lightning-storm of quick sharp punches at Bruce, who blocked as ably as he could, then driving a full-force kick into the gaijin's torso, sending him flying. Bruce rolled, then lay motionless.   
  
Tsumane, fevered with apparent victory, lunged forward, eager for a final and absolute triumph. It proved his undoing. Bruce, remaining on the floor, deflected and redirected Tsumane's lunge, using it's momentum to lever himself up while driving the other youth to the tatami floor with a thud.  
  
"Enough!" declared the Sensei. "You have both proven yourselves worthy fighters. Now search your hearts. Are you more than simply fighters? Meditate, and find within your ki, your spirit, the thing that can make you into a true warrior." The ancient master turned his penetrating gaze towards Bruce. "Burusu-san, in the time since you came to me, you have shown yourself almost without peer in the martial arts. You are a driven man, my son, and your lot will be a lonely one. Cherish the friends you find, bind them close with hooks of steel, for they are precious. Beware the thirst for revenge. It can destroy you, if you let it." Bruce bowed in silence. The Master was a very insightful man, and wise with long experience. His words were to be valued.  
  
The ancient sensei turned then to Tsumane. "Tsumane-san, you are technically without flaw in all your motions, calm and focused. You are perfect in your skills." The compact young man bowed deeply. "And yet," continued the old man, "you were still laid low by your opponent. Do not give in to arrogance, or it will be your undoing. A martial artist is nothing. No-thingness, the state of peace and tranquility within the Void. You will never be defeated if you once embrace this, but the price is your selfishness. A warrior is only a vessel of perfection." Tsumane bowed again, stiffly, formally. The old man was a great teacher, but he could not see all ends.  
  
With a clap of his hands, the Master dismissed his disciples, and watched as they stood, bowed, and filed out towards the siple barracks across the compound. Burusu Ueino, and Shinochi Tsumane. They were the best he had ever taught, and the most dangerous. He would have to watch them both carefully.  
  
******  
  
The Yurei Tsuru no Dojo, the dojo of the Ghost Crane, was the center of a large compound, built within the ruins of a medieval castle in the snowy mountains of Hokkaido, the northernmost of Japan's four main islands. The ancient fortress had been leveled in the sixteenth-century civil wars, when the greatest of Japan's daimyo had battled each other to claim the post of shogun, an office which bestowed more power even than the figurehead emperor. The ruins had been converted into a sprawling compound, walled and isolated, almost unknown in the outside world.   
  
At the compound's epicenter was the dojo itself, a large rectangular building comprised of a single large room, the walls lined with weapons racks filled with swords, spears, nunchuka, sickle-and-chains, and countless other armaments, both wooden practice equipment, and live-edged steel. At one end was the wide door, at the other end was the master's dais.  
  
Directly to the north of the dojo proper, there was laid out a meditation garden, it's ocean of pebbles carefully raked in orderly and precise fashion, interspersed with granite boulders protruding like mountains from the ocean. In the center of this tranquil sea was a small hut, where the Sensei lived, along with his daughter.  
  
To the south was the barracks, where the Sensei's disciples slept and meditated. The accomodations were sparse, the residents provided with only their futon sleeping mats, practice gis, and a suit of simple clothes for special occasions, wide hakama trousers and a haori jacket, sleeves, lapels, and back emblazoned with the Sensei's emblem, the ghost crane.  
  
To the east, there was the kitchen,where the students cooked and ate their simple meals of rice and fish, and the road to the nearest village, from whence they accquired their supplies. To the west lay the bath house, built over a natural hot spring, and a trail, running up the steep side of the mountain, along which those in search of tranquility or challenge could ascend, the way growing progressively more difficult as they neared the top. The Sensei had dubbed it Abunai-yama, the dangerous mountain, and so it was.  
  
Bruce Wayne, orphan, millionaire, and globe-trotter, had been drifting across the world for years, learning anything he could from anyone who could teach him. At twenty, he was already a master of numerous martial arts, hypnosis and psychology, makeup and disguise, acting, chemistry, electronics and engineering, and computer programming. He had yet to be satisfied.  
  
Since that day twelve years ago, when he had knelt between his fallen parents, their life-blood soaking the knees of his pants and the soles of his shoes, he had been driven by something, something elusive, shadowy, but fierce and sharp. He didn't know what he hoped to find in his travels and his studies, but he felt certain that it was out there somewhere. In the meantime, he had decided, almost unconsciously, to put his new acting skills to use, and build a Bruce Wayne for the world to see, a foppish, indolent fool, idle young jet-setter, developing playboy without a care in the world or a thought in his head. Meanwhile, the real Bruce Wayne hid behimd the false one's vacant gaze and sloppy amiable grin, and watched for the purpose he hunted.  
  
He had heard rumors of a master martial artist, skilled in disciplines which almost no one retained any knowledge of, fighting skills almost lost to time. He had sought the truth in these rumors, and had at last come to the Dojo of the Ghost Crane.  
  
The Sensei was real, a master of incredible skill and knowledge, heir to an ancient tradition. He was real, but he was not welcoming. Bruce was, after all, a gaijin, a foreigner, and he was viewed with some suspicion. He had allayed these suspicions though, demonstrating his ability and potential to the ancient warrior in a sparring match with his chief pupil. Bruce had almost had his arms broken, but had somehow managed to break the hold, and delivered a crippling punch to the solar plexus that laid low his adversary. The Sensei had applauded, then faced Bruce himself. The young man was left sprawled on the ground before he had been able to take a stance, and the turtle-like little man had studied him as he lay on his back.  
  
"You have much to learn, Ueino Burusu-kun. But you are, I think, one who is able to learn much. You shall stay, and you shall be taught." From then on, he had been just another disciple, joining the ten others already living in the compound.  
  
A month later, Shinochi Tsumane had come. He was an average-sized Japanese, but very strong, with a steady, determined look in his eye when he came to the compound's gate. He was also tested, and also accepted. He and Bruce soon found that they were far too evenly matched in their skills, and a rivalry developed between them.  
  
Tsumane was a very private person, taciturn and withdrawn, a young man who watched without speaking most of the time. He kept his own council, and what that council might be, not even the master who taught them could say for certain. One thing, though, was certain. He watched the Sensei's daughter far more inently than he watched anything else.  
  
******  
  
Shakiko was eighteen, with long raven hair and a smooth round face, small in stature but energetic in manner. She assisted her father in his daily chores, and managed the affairs of the compound from day to day. The Sensei was far too traditional to teach her his martial skills, but in all other ways he was putty in her hand. She was a spark of life among the simple routine of the dojo, and all of the disciples were fond of her. Some, it seemed, were more than fond.  
  
Bruce wasn't sure how he felt. He had, reputation aside, not had much experience with women, and his private quest, wherever it might take him, certainly had no space for a woman. And yet...  
  
She sparkled with energy when she entered a room, and she made him feel energized as well. Talking to her, seeing her smile, hearing her play the three-stringed samisen, he felt a warmth in his soul. He cared for her, but knew little beyond that.  
  
With Tsumane, it was more of an obsession. His stony eyes glowed with a grim light whenever they fixed on her, and when she played or sang or laughed, he seemed like a man possessed. She did not speak to him if she could help it, but when she did, he drank in her words like a man dying of thirst. He frightened her, with his brooding silence.  
  
Bruce was also brooding and silent much of the time, but him she was not afraid of. She pestered him often for stories about the places he had been, America, Europe, China, Africa, and worked hard to drag accounts of his adventures out of him. For such a young man, Bruce was an incredibly seasoned veteran of life's perils. Around her, the walls in his heart softened a little, and he did not mind talking. In time, he even came to speak a little about his parents. She cried when she heard his story of their murders, and her tears brought forth his own. A barrier had broken in his spirit, and he was now certain of his feelings. 


	9. Hokkaido

Hokkaido is the northernmost of the four main islands of Japan, and the coldest. With autumn turning to winter, snow was on the mountains, where the Shadow Dragon kept their secret fortress. Hidden within was the Cross, hopefully. We came there using a vehicle that Batman had kept hidden in the safehouse, and, owing to my leg wound, I was to remain outside the compound unless absolutely neccessary. It rankled to be held off from the hunt, but as God willed it, neccessity gave me an opportunity after all...  
  
Chapter 9  
Hokkaido  
  
The Bat-Skimmer was late-model technology, on the cutting edge of Waynetech's impressive capabilities. It married hovercraft, VTOL (Vertical Take-Off and Landing), and extremely new stealth helicopter technology into one small, fast, manouverable, and almost silent vehicle.  
  
Batman piloted it swiftly below radar ceilings and around flight lanes, giving Donal a quick overview of its controls. The young monk was a quick study, and by the time they had refueled at another supply cache, he was able to pilot them the rest of the way.  
  
The Kage Ryu, the Shadow Dragon, were an ancient orginization that, as far as most people were concerned, had never existed. Established during the succession wars of the sixteenth century, the Kage Ryu had perfected the arts of Ninjutsu, selling their dark skills to the highest-paying daimyo lords. Assassins, saboteurs, spies, and thieves, the Kage Ryu had been of great help to the powerful lord Nobunaga, who eventually failed to claim the title of Shogun, or Grand General. That honor went to lord Tokugawa Iieyasu, and Nobunaga was slain in battle. The Shadow Dragon, ever opportunistic, sold themselves to the victor.  
  
For centuries, up until America reestablished Japan's link to the western world, the Shadow Dragon had served the Tokugawa shoguns as Metsuke, the spies and secret police that kept the empire pacified and under control. Even so much as whispering the name Kage Ryu was, so legend went, enough to earn a man a quick and silent death.  
  
The Tokugawas had rewarded these long years of faithful service by building a fortress hidden away in the mountains of Hokkaido, completed in the year 1775. Kage Ryu no Oshiro, the Castle of the Shadow Dragon, was built as much within the mountain itself as it was on top of it. Tunnels and caverns went deep into the mountainside, while towers and curtain walls blended into the rugged landscape. Cannon controlled all access points, and the ninja followed their hidden arts in peace. No one ever stopped them.  
  
Now Batman, Nightwing, and Donal Mac Namara swept in close and low within their bat-shaped skimmer, making little more noise than an owl on the wing.  
  
The plan was for Batman and Nightwing to paraschute inside the courtyard, slip into the central keep, locate Tsumane, and retrieve the cross. Donal, still at less than peak efficiency, would remain in the air waiting for the retrieval signal, unless things got out of control.  
  
"Coming up on the castle." Donal reported. Batman nodded silently, and donned his paraschute. Nightwing followed suit.  
  
"Coming up on outer wall. Over courtyard. Go!" The two vigilantes dived out of the hovering aircraft, opened their bat-winged 'schutes, and drifted slowly to the ground. Once they touched down, they divested themselves of their burdens and moved out fast.  
  
The plans in the ninja clan's database had been made after the renovation of the ancient fortress thirty years ago, when electricity had been added. According to them, the central chamber, where Tsumane was likely to be, lay six stories underground, beneath the main keep tower. Batman's plan was to reach the main electrical conduit, follow a service tunnel that had been installed alongside it, and emerge one level below their target, then work up. He and Nightwing would stay together until the cross was retrieved, when Nightwing, the faster of the two, would head back to the Batskimmer, while Batman created a diversion. The assumption was that by the time they got the cross, a diversion would be needed.  
  
There was a guard at the main entrance, and he was a ninja. Nightwing had the element of surprise, and the man went down before he could sound the alarm. The dynamic duo followed the maze of internal corridors until they reached the electrical access tunnel, then went in and down.  
  
"Just like old times," remarked Nightwing, far to cheerfully for a man sneaking into a ninja fortress.  
  
"If it were just like old times," Batman grunted as he went down, "You'd be wearing the red and yellow, and you'd be out front to draw their fire."  
  
"You know, I always wondered about your color choice. I was a decoy all those years?" Batman's only response was a grunt as he kicked the panel open, and slid out into the seventh sub-level.   
  
Sub-level seven housed the armory, evidently. Rack upon rack of blades, poles, bows, and firearms, interspersed with shelves of ammunition and shuriken, with a few cabinets full of strange-looking bottles with nasty-looking substances inside. Batman tossed a few demolition charges on the way through, and epoxied the door on the way out.  
  
They followed the hallway to the stairs, still without catching sight of anyone. Then the charges went off, eleminating the bulk of the ninja clan's arsenal, and sending a clear signal to all concerned. They raced up the stairs as shouts welled up behind them. They reached the landing above them, went through the doors, and stopped short.  
  
In front of them were three men, one huge, two small. The big one had a six-foot long razor-edged sword in his hands, and blood-lust in the tiny eyes that sat deep in his head. The other two were armed with sai, long, three-tined daggers, one in each hand.  
  
The thick-skulled behemoth swept his blade in a savage horizontal cut, which Batman ducked, and Nightwing flipped over. Batman closed with the huge ninja, and planted a booted foot squarely in the center of the man's bare chest. He might as well have kicked one of the stone walls.  
  
Nightwing had his escrima sticks out, and was moving rapidly, trying to keep the sai fighters from flanking him. One lunged, and he backflipped overhead, rapping the man in the side of his head. The other moved in close and thrust from each side with his sai, but Nightwing caught his arms with the sticks, slapped the right sai out of the man's hand, and jabbed the tip of his stick into the ninja's left biceps. The arm went limp, and the unweaponed fighter turned and ran. Nightwing pulled the taser from his left gauntlet and fired. The ninja went down, twitching with the flood of elctricity that ran through him when the taser's wires caught him.  
  
Batman evaded a series of three slashes and a jab, twisting and ducking with all his speed. The giant wielded the six-foot length of bow-curved steel as though it were made of plastic. The huge ninja spun and launched a left-footed kick that came within centimeters of shattering Batman's knee, and the dark knight caught his foot, twisting the joint. The hulking warrior went down with a huge thud, and the massive sword fell out of his limp fingers.  
  
The remaining sai fighter, recovered from the blow to his head, threw his daggers at Nightwing and rolled to pick up his companions weapons as Nightwing parried. Coming up behind the vigilante's left shoulder, the ninja lunged. Nightwing kicked him in the face, the sound of cartilage breaking mixing unharmoniously with the clatter of the dropped sai on the stone floor. The man was down.  
  
They examined their surroundings for the first time. They were in a large chamber, decorated in the style of a feudal Japanese castle, with the highest-ranked master seated upon a dias at the far end, the lesser masters arrayed in rows along each of the long wall, and, kneeling before his master, Shinochi Tsumane. Before his bowed head lay the Cross of Padraic.  
  
"Youkosou, gaijin. Anata wa nan desu ka?" said the man on the dias. "Welcome, foreigners. Who are you?"  
  
Shinochi answered for them. "Sensei, permit me to present for you the fabled Batman of Gotham city, and his companion Nightwing, of Bludhaven. They are responsible for the recent complications in my American operations."  
  
"Indeed. Welcome, Batman and Nightwing, to our humble castle. I see you have had no difficulty with our guards?"  
  
"Maybe you should rethink your security measures," suggested Nightwing.  
  
"Something to consider, certainly. First, though, we must deal with you. Gentlemen, attack!"  
  
The ninja masters sprang forward from their kneeling positions, drawing a variety of lethal weapons from their robes. Batman threw a spread of shock pellets into the cluster that came at him from the right hand side, adding a few knockout gas balls as he leapt to the left, coming face to face with a man holding two swords, long and short. Nightwing got one with his taser and then dropped it in favor of his sticks. He somersaulted overhead and landed between a short man with a bo staff and a long-armed man holding a sickle-and-chain.  
  
Batman's Nito Ichi Ryu swordsman was inhumanly fast, a whirling blur of keen-edged steel with death in his eyes. Batman rolled to the left, took off his cape, and wrapped it around his left arm to use in parrying the blows. With his right hand, he went for a batarang. The ninja had in his right hand a katana, the long sword, a peerless weapon. In his left, the wakizashi, the companion sword, a foot-and-a-half long copy of the katana. His fighting style was that of the legendary Miyamoto Musashi, who had been the first to use both swords at once. He was deadly.  
  
Nightwing leapt a staff blow, only to be caught by the chain that the sickleman hurled. In his right hand was the short-hafted sickle, as lethal a close-quarters weapon as any devised by man. Attached to the butt of the haft was a long thin chain, with a heavy weight at the end. This he twirled, and with it he caught his target. Nightwing went down, and he came in for a killing slash.  
  
Batman nearly lost his arm to the short sword, nearly lost his head to the long. He managed to pull loose a batarang, flick it at the blademaster's eyes, and land a punch to his chin. He seized the katana, and turned to face the others.   
  
Nightwing caught the sickle-hand at the last moment, and used the momentum of the ninja's swing to hurl him into the staff fighter. He grabbed the man's bo, and stood back-to-back with his mentor.  
  
There were seven ninja still standing. One had a katana, two had bo staves, one carried a naginata, a weapon that was essentially a three-foot sword blade on a six-foot pole. Two of the others had very large and diversified collections of knives and shuriken. Tsumane and the high master had only their bodies. They were potentially the most dangerous of the group.  
  
Batman tapped on the comlink in his cowl. "Plan B." Donal responded with two clicks. Plan A called for Donal to remain in the air above the compound, taking out any ninja who attempted to take them from behind, and giving them advance warning of enemy reenforcements. Plan B had the monk open fire with the skimmer's flash and gas grenade launchers, land, bottle up the skimmer, and provide reenforcements for the dynamic duo on-site.  
  
The naginata man lunged at Batman, sweeping the broad curved blade at his head. Batman side-stepped and slashed right through the pole, letting the weapon's steel blade drop to the ground as he delivered a kick to the ninja's solar plexus.  
  
Nightwing used the bo to keep the other two staff-fighters at bay while circling towards the cross on the ground. One of the knife-men cut him off, however, lunging with a dagger in each hand. Nightwing caught him in the belly with the tip of his staff, and tossed him as though using a pitchfork. While the knifer went overhead, one of the staff men took the opportunity and lunged, but Nightwing managed to swing the other end of his staff down at the last minute in a hasty parry.  
  
Batman engaged the swordsman in a rapid duel, parrying the man's thrust at his throat and responding with a feint at the knees. With the ninja's guard forced low, he kicked the man in the head and jumped over him to drop one of Nightwing's staff-carrying opponents from behind with a well-placed neck chop.  
  
The remaining knife fighter remained on the fringes, readying a pair of small throwing daggers. With Nightwing's back to him, he thought he had a perfect shot. The small, razor-sharp, poison-tipped missiles flew at the vigilante, but Nightwing spun, just as the man was throwing, and with reflexes honed since he had started walking, spun the bo staff, sending the lethal blades skittering off away from him. Behind him, the staff fighter swung overhanded at his head, but he dropped to one knee, caught the blow with his staff held horizontally, and delivered a thrust to the short ribs that felled the man.  
  
Donal Mac Namara, sword in hand, entered the room at this point. His leg hardly slowed him down at all as he rushed for the cross. Tsumane sprang at him from the side, throwing a sharp right jab at the monk's face, but Donal ducked, kicking the ninja in the thigh, sending him staggering back.   
  
Batman threw a batarang that knocked the knife thrower out cold, then advanced on Tsumane. The ninja stood, and grinned at him.  
  
"Just like old times, eh, Burusu-san? Come, and we can finish this." He dropped into a fighting stance, and Batman followed suit. They leapt at each other with lightning-fast movements, Batman snapping a kick at Tsumane's head, the ninja dodging and stepping in close for a series of jabs at Batman's face. The vigilante blocked the punches, caught Tsumane's wrist, and tried a judo toss. Tsumane rolled with the throw, keeping a grip on Batman's arm, landed on his feet, and slung Batman overhead into a wall.  
  
Nightwing and Donal stood facing the ninja master, who stood between them and the cross. Armed with staff and sword, they edged out, trying to flank him, but the grey-haired shadow warrior launched an attack that included both men. He rushed Nightwing, and jumped for a head kick. When the young crime-fighter blocked with his staff, the master kicked off and rolled into Donal, springing up and punching him in the temple. The monk staggered back as Nightwing lunged forward, staff held out. The ninja master caught the long wooden shaft with his back still to Nightwing, pulled him in close, and put him down with a belly kick.  
  
Batman got up, and went for Tsumane again. This time, he didn't bother to parry blows, just absorbed their impact and ignored them, focused with single-minded dedication to hurting Tsumane as much as he could. The ninja, for his part, focused primarily on defense, breaking occasionally to throw a devestating blow at Batman. The dark knight didn't seem to notice.  
  
Donal kicked the ninja in the head, punched him in the solar plexus, and grabbed him by his collar to throw him aside. The old man stiffened suddenly, slamming the edges of his palms into the monk's neck, dropping him, dazed, to the floor. Nightwing took his opening, and struck as hard and as accurately as he could at the ninja master, sending him sprawling on the floor. Nightwing moved for the cross, but pulled up sharply as a shuriken whizzed past his face. The ninja master stood again, and, reaching into the folds of his robe, he pulled forth a pair of nunchukas, spinning them in a blur of motion as he advanced on Nightwing.  
  
Batman and Tsumane pummeled each other now, neither of them feeling pain, or anything else. There was no more artistry in their fight, only animal savagery, as punch after punch was landed. Batman's vision was a blur, both from his fury and from the black eyes that were welling up now. Tsumane was no better. Batman kicked out, sent Tsumane back, and ripped off his cowl, which had slipped and blocked his view. They stood now, face to face.  
  
Nightwing drew his collapsible back-up escrima sticks from his left gauntlet and began to fight a defensive battle with the nunchuka-wielding ninja master. It was a lost cause, and be began to give ground, as slowly as he could without being overwhelmed. The old man was inhumanly fast, and his strokes with the combat flails were as unerringly precise as they were savagely brutal. With all his skills, Nightwing could not hope to last much longer. Then Donal rose from the floor, took a bo staff in hand, and moved to strike at the ninja from behind. The staff was caught by one of the nunchuka, so he dropped it and kicked it, knocking the flail from the ninja's hand. Nightwing struck then, shattering the bones of the man's left wrist, making him drop the remaining nunchuka, then laid a hard, accurate stroke against the ninja master's neck. He sank, unconscious, to the ground.  
  
The brutal fight between Batman and Tsumane continued, now with nothing at all between their fists and each other's faces. Neither of them could see much between the blood and the bruising, but they were still swinging, hard and vicious. Batman pulled back suddenly, kicked out with unerring precision, and planted his right foot squarely into the ninja's chest. Tsumane fell back, and Batman kicked him in the side of the head to keep him down as he walked over to Nightwing and Donal.  
  
Padraic's Cross lay on the tatami matting before the three of them. It was gold, the longer side being about one foot in measurement. It was a Celtic cross, with a circle ringing the center, traced all over its surface with intricate knotwork designs, beasts and geometric shapes, beautiful and detailed. Set in the center was an unthinkably complex knot pattern, which seemed at first to be a shamrock, then a dove, then a man crucified. After some study, one realized that the knot held the shapes of Hebrew letters: YWYH, the unspeakable name of Almighty God. Donal began praying in Gaelic.  
  
"Come on," said Nightwing. "We need to get out of here before more trouble arrives." Donal nodded, placed the Cross of Padraic reverently in his rucksack, and turned to follow Nightwing and Batman. 


	10. Gathering Forces

We had the Cross. Now we had to keep it.  
  
Chapter 10  
Gathering Forces  
  
"Now this," said Donal in a conversational tone as he spead the vile-smelling green paste on Nightwing's side, "may sting a little bit."  
  
"Sonuvabitch!" yelped Nightwing, jumping up from the couche were he was lying.  
  
"As I said, it may sting a little. But it helps the healing, speeds the knitting of the bones." Donal retrieved his patient, and bandaged the hero's cracked ribs.  
  
"They taught you that at your monastery?"  
  
The monk nodded. "The Brotherhood of the Hidden Way has need of many skills. We must be warriors and healers both. That should do for you. With God's aid, you'll be good as new in a couple of days."  
  
Nightwing stood, and winced. He felt privately that a half-dozen cracked ribs might be preferrable to the agony that his sides were in now. "So how's Batman?"  
  
Donal frowned. "Batman didn't let me look at him. I believe he retired to bandage his own wounds."  
  
"Yeah, that's his way. He tends to keep things inside, doesn't want other people getting too close to him, especially when he feels weak."  
  
The door opened. Batman strode in, his battered face covered in bandages, walking stiffly.  
  
"Our work here is done. As soon as possible, we return to Gotham."  
  
Donal cocked one reddish-brown eyebrow. "We? I have no intention of returning to Gotham. I must take the Cross back to Ireland, where it belongs."  
  
Batman frowned at him grimly. "The cross belongs in the museum it was stolen from."  
  
"No!" The monk stood, green eyes alight. "You don't know what you deal with here. This isn't just some archeological relic, some historical curiosity that was stolen and recovered. This is a race against evil, and the stakes are high. Your museum couldn't protect the cross once. Will it be safe twice?"  
  
"As far as I've seen, this cross is just a cross. What makes it so dangerous?" The Batman did not give ground.  
  
"It carries the blessing of power, fashioned in the days of Patrick to serve as a weapon against the forces of darkness. Power, Batman! The cross and it's power must not fall into the wrong hands!"  
  
"What power?"  
  
Donal sighed, and sat back down. " haven't been very fair to you. You have aided me in an absence of any real knowledge of this quest, or it's object. Very well. I will tell you now the story of Padraic's Cross, and show the truth of my words to you. Then you will agree with me."  
  
"We shall see."  
  
The monk launched into his tale.  
  
******  
  
In the shambles that was left of the Shadow Dragon's great hall, the masters, those who were not too badly injured, sat at coucil. Before them knelt Shinochi Tsumane.  
  
"You have brought this destruction down around our heads, Shinochi-kun." The high master, his wrist still bandaged where Nightwing had shattered it, growled at the kneeling agent, adressing him with the diminutive 'kun' as though he were a young boy.  
  
"Hai, Harachisa-sensei," agreed the prostate Tsumane.  
  
Harachisa fixed a pain-fueled glare at him. "Well? What do you plan to do about it, Shinochi-kun?"  
  
"Sensei, I would hardly dare to voice my own insignificant opinions on this matter to you."  
  
"Enough!" Harachisa bellowed. He was in no mood for typical Japanese self-abasement. His wrist hurt too much, for one thing. "Over the years, you have proven yourself to be the most skilfull, cunning, and resourceful operative we possess. You have gained the Shadow Dragon a great deal of profit through your contract work. Now, when you have brought down disaster on our heads, you will find a way out, or you will scommit seppuku now, with a dull sawblade. Do I make myself clear?"  
  
Tsumane remained prostrate. "Indeed, master. I believe I do have a plan which may help us recover." He raised his head. His self-assurance and control were returning slowly. His face was still a mask of bruises from the beating that Batman had given him. "  
We were tracked by the Batman and his allies because of the cross."  
  
"The cross you stole."  
  
"Yes, which I stole. The swordsman who accompanied the Batman, you took note of him?"  
  
Harachisa rubbed his bandaged wrist tenderly, and glared. "He attacked and disarmed me. Of course I took note of him."  
  
"He is a member of a religious order devoted to the collecting of sacred relics. This cross was one such. Now that he has recovered it, he will try to take it to his monastery, where it will be preserved. If we can find the location of this base, we can intercept them, reclaim what was taken, and punish those who dared to attack us. Profit and vengeance will both be ours."  
  
Harachisa nodded. "And how shall we find this place, Tsumane-san?"  
  
The ninja was about to answer, when there came a sound like the rushing of wind, and the underground chamber was plunged into darkness. At the doorway suddenly appeared a red light, sillouhetting a tall man-shaped figure.  
  
"I can guide you to this place, ninja. Your enemies are my enemies." Out of the red shadows strode Simon Magus, resplendent in black robes, edged in crimson. On his chest he wore an amulet in the shape of the pentagram, engraved with the face of the Goat. His eyes seemed to glow like red coals in the darkness.  
  
"Who are you?" demanded Harachisa. Magus ignored him and glared at Tsumane.  
  
"Still disdainful of my powers, little ninja? I haven't forgotten your treachery, be assured. But I can ignore it, as long as we have a common foe." The sorcerer turned his baleful gaze upon the ninja master. "I will ally myself with you, guide you to where our enemies can be found, and help you destroy them. All I ask in return is the cross."  
  
Harachisa did not ponder long. The fact that this evil presence had reached this far, six stories underground through armed and watchful guards, spoke of its power well enough. "Very well. We are allies."  
  
******  
  
"You know, doubtless, the tale of Saint Patrick, how he came to Ireland a slave, then returned as a bringer of the Holy Light. One man alone, he brought the Christ to the Irish, and began a great work among them. Kings and slave, warriors and workers, thousands of men and women were converted, and the Gospel brought peace and unity to the island.  
  
"Patrick made enemies, as well, and chief among these was the druid, Maighoch. Now, the druids were the scholars, the truth-seekers, and the master bards. Many of them, those with open minds and seeking hearts, were won to the truth. But then there were those who feared the new way, those who hated Patrick's influence, and those who didn't want to lose their own power and authority. Of these latter was Maighoch, a powerful wizard and influential priest. He had the ear of many lesser kings, and even the Ard Righ, the high king, accepted his council.   
  
"But now, the rulers of the land opened their ears to Patrick's teachings, and the power of the old gods was waning. Maighoch knew that he had to eleminate his nemesis.   
  
"So, Maighoch opened himself up entirely to darkness. He called upon the powers of hell, selling his very soul for the strength to crush the Christian way. Then he prepared his trap.  
  
"Patrick was invited to debate with Maighoch at the court of King Conor Mac Namara, a grim, brooding lord, who feared the druids and their gods, and hated the new religion. Patrick knew it for a trap, but, after praying for guidance, went anyway. First, however, he visited a friend, Aidan the Goldsmith.  
  
"He asked Aidan to make for him a cross, an emblem of the living God, a work of great beauty which would catch the eye and mind. And for seven days and seven nights, the mastersmith worked, twisting, hammering, shaping. And at the end, he presented the saint with a cross like no other, a cross that seemed to blaze with an inward light, as if Aidan's love for his God had been embedded in his work.  
  
"Patrick took the cross, and prayed God to lend his blessings upon it, and upon his humble servant, Patrick. And, taking the blessed cross, he set out for the court of the Mac Namara.  
  
"He came there on the appointed day, and Maighoch was awaiting him. He said 'Come, slave of this Jesu, and debate with me. The one of us which proves best his teachings, he shall be triumphant, and the loser shall yield himself to the other's truth. My own patron, Conor Mac Namara, shall judge.'"  
  
"Now, Patrick could smell the lies on Maighoch's voice and could taste the evil that surrounded him, but all he said was 'Very well, druid. I give to you, my host, the privilege of speaking first.'"  
  
"The druid smiled falsely, and answered 'Nay, Padraic, you are guest. To you goes the first speaking.' For the druid's plan called for Patrick to speak first.  
  
"And now, before the gathering of all the Mac Namara, Patrick began to preach. He spoke of the One True God, who shaped the world out of void. He spoke of how man, God's steward and friend, betrayed his Creator's trust, and rebelled. He spoke of how God, who loved his children and would not be sundered from them, sacrificed himself on the cross, a sacrifice to atone for their sins, that they need only ask, and be forgiven. And here he showed the cross, and told of the resurrection.  
  
"King Conor nodded when he was finished, and said 'In truth, Padraic, I think you should be my bard, for you tell a tale far, far better than the one I have now. But let us hear the druid. What say you, master Maighoch?"  
  
"Maighoch smiled and said 'Master Padraic, I have but one question. Who is more powerful, this Jesu of whom you speak, or the gods of Ireland?' And Patrick answered 'In truth, Jesu is God of Ireland, as well as of all the world, and all the universe. He is more powerful by far."  
  
"Maighoch smiled, and said 'Let us put it to the test, Padraic. Can your Jesu part water?' Now, the debate took place in the open air, and within sight was a small lake. Maighoch gestured, and commanded, and the waters parted.  
  
"'Verily,' said Patrick, 'Jesu has parted great seas and rushing rivers at flood-tide. This is no true test. But can your gods smooth the parted waters?' And he prayed, and the waters were restored immediately.  
  
"Maighoch was not finished. 'Can your Jesu call fire from heaven?' And he commanded it, and a great flame came out of the sky and struck a tall and mighty tree nearby.  
  
"'Indeed, druid,' the saint answered, 'he has destroyed cities and consumed false altars with fire. But can your gods quench their blazes?' And he called on God's aid, and the fires died, and the scorched tree was healed.  
  
"Then Patrick turned to the druid. 'Now, Maighoch, I know who your true master is, for he is the enemy of mine. In the name of Jesu, the Lamb Without Spot, I call the demons who infest you to leave!'  
  
"The cross, held aloft, blazed with inner light, and there was a sound of rushing wind. Maighoch screamed and twitched, mouth foaming, eyes blazing, for the space of half an hour. At the end, he lay still, the spirits cast out. And from that day forward, Conor Mac Namara, my ancestor, was a servant of the True God."  
  
Donal finished his tale, and took a sip from the cup of whiskey at his side. Then, drawing the cross from his rucksack, he stood. "And now Batman, so that you may know that my words are true, I shall present you with the proof.  
  
"Lord God, creator of heaven and of earth, I ask your aid. Jesu of Nazareth, Forgiver Of Sin, I call on your grace. Spirit of the Living God, constant companion, give me grace to show the truth of your power!" The rune completed, the monk stood, eyes shut, the ancient cross held aloft. For a moment, there was absolute stillness. Then came the wind, a whirling, whistling flow of air coming from nowhere, going to nowhere. The monk's tonsured hair waved in the uncanny gust, and he continued his prayer. The cross now glowed, illuminated with a light like frozen fire all along it's surface, the symbols of God in the center blazing with power not of this earth.  
  
At last, the wind died down, and the glow faded. Donal Mac Namara, monk of the Hidden Way of Saint Patrick, came to himself. "Your name is Bruce Wayne, and you seek revenge against the ninja who has tracked us. He took something, someone, very precious to you. This is truth. Even now, this ninja has allied himself with the dark forces that seek to claim this cross and it's power."  
  
Batman stared at him in silence. At last, he spoke. "We go to Ireland with you. The cross will be safeguarded." 


	11. Shadows of Memory

The Cross' vision had shown true. And what it had shown was a tragedy. At last, I understood the fued between the Batman and this shadow warrior...  
  
Chapter 11  
Shadows of Memory  
  
Bruce Wayne sat lotus-style in the blowing wind, bare to the waist, the snow turning to steam as it touched him. He had just completed his post-meal calisthenics work, and now he meditated. With nothing but strength of will, he denied the cold, alienated himself from the pain, and, as he had been taught by the Ghost Crane sensei, adapted his very body temperature. He had become one with the frozen landscape.  
  
"Konban wa, Burusu-san. Genki?" The self-assured tones of Shinochi Tsumane came from over Bruce's left shoulder, starting him from his trance-state. He turned, to see the gi-clad man standing behind him.  
  
"Konban wa, Shinochi-san. Genki desu." Bruce stood, and threw his shirt on over his chilled torso.  
  
The compact man with the hard eyes studied Bruce, thoroughly and determinedly, as though inspecting a specimen. "I have noticed, Burusu-san, that you have spent much time lately with the sensei's daughter."  
  
One jet-black eyebrow went up over an icy-blue eye. "And if I have?"  
  
"She is not for you, gaijin." In Tsumane's mouth, the word was an epithet, holding all the centuries of xenophobia which had shaped Japanese society. "She is Japanese, of ancient blood, high lineage. Only one who is truly worthy should claim her." His voice took on a distant tone, as though his mind had wandered.  
  
"One such as you?" Bruce stood face to face with the young Japanese man, gazing down at him with eyes hard and cold. "I do not wish to 'possess' Shakiko-san. No man can possess her, I think. We enjoy each other's company, and I see no reason not to continue doing so."  
  
"Very well, Burusu-san. We shall discuss this again, perhaps, at another time."  
  
"Perhaps. Another time then." The two men stared each other down for a space, then turned and left each other.  
  
******  
  
Up the slope of the mountain went Shinochi, mind alight. He had come here, into the wilds of this frozen land, seeking the legendary Ghost Crane Master, and had found him, been accepted by him. What he alone knew was why. He was young, but he had a purpose in life, a master. From the age of twelve, he had been the servant of the Shadow Dragon ninja clan. They were his family, the only one he had ever known.  
  
It had been his own idea, this seeking out of the legend, the greatest martial arts sensei alive. He had persuaded his masters that he would become tenfold more valuable to them, were he to be trained in the Yurei Tsuru no Dojo. So they had sent him here, and he had studied. If he returned to them tomorrow, he would be their finest assassin.  
  
But he did not wish to leave.  
  
Up the trail he went, higher and higher along the Abunai-Yama, the sensei's difficult mountain, which tested even the greatest mastery. Now he came to the first true challenge. The trail vanished in a confusion of boulders, held in place only by the snow. For twenty feet there was no safe path apparent, only a chaotic jumble of rock and snow, ready to collapse and tumble down upon him if he made but a single wrong move. If that happened, he could very easily die.  
  
Shakiko. Never had he seen a more beautiful creature. From the first time he saw her, he wanted her, to possess her, to master her. The desire did not diminish. He became gradually obsessed, fixated on her, and he would, he realized now, brook no obstacle.  
  
He leapt high, and landed feather-light upon the top of the first boulder. The earth beneath his feet shifted, the crust of ice and snow was gone, and the stone began going down, but he was already aloft again, landing atop the second boulder even as the first tumbled into a young pine tree fifty yards down the trail, demolishing it.  
  
Burusu Ueno. Obstacle. Rival. First a rival for supremacy among the students, and now for the sensei's daughter. The foreigner with the absurd name and the strange eyes had a hold on the girl's affection, and she would not look at Tsumane as long as he was there.  
  
He launched himself from stone to stone, moving just fast enough to save himself each time, his margin for error diminishing with each jump, reveling in the risk to life and limb. With the third to the last, his luck ran out and he was almost crushed as the great stone rolled away, leaving him on the ground. He stood with astonishing speed, to gaze upon the other two rocks, rolling swiftly at him, sweeping the whole breadth of the trail between them. Without concern for whether it would kill him, for he did not expect to survive this, he ran straight for them, jumping against the trailing rock, and tumbling to the side, his head narrowly missing the whirling lump of stone. He lay then on the cold snow, aching but alive.  
  
Something, Tsumane decided, should be done. This gaijin must be dealt with, and Shakiko claimed for himself. Only then could he return to the Shadow Dragon.  
  
******  
  
That evening, Bruce sat with Shakiko, watching the snow falling on the mountains. He found his mouth dry, and his hands sweated.  
  
"Shakiko-san," he began nervously.  
  
"Hai, Burusu-san?" she looked at him with her large dark eyes, and he was rendered speechless.  
  
"W-well, I was, I wanted to, I mean I…" he stammered, mind numb and heart quaking. All he could think of was how beautiful she was.  
  
She smiled at him. "I know, Burusu-san. I know." And she kissed him.  
  
After a thousand years had gone by, they broke off. Bruce had turned a deep crimson shade, and tried to speak, but only stammered unintelligibly.   
  
"No need to speak, Burusu-san. Words do not matter." She kissed him again, and he had to agree with her. Then she stood. And walked back to her father's house, leaving Bruce numb and delirious.  
  
After about ten minutes, he realized that it was cold, and decided to go in out of the snow.  
  
******  
  
Lying on his futon that night, Tsumane brooded darkly. He was a man of finesse, subtlety, but he could not think of a subtle way to deal with his problem. He needed a more direct stratagem.  
  
He heard a whistling in his left ear, a low long note with no outside source. When he had first set out to find the Dojo of the Ghost Crane, his masters in the Shadow Dragon had him fitted with a high-tech microtransmitter, a tiny device that vibrated the bones of his inner ear when activated. It was still new and experimental technology, and couldn't transmit anything as complex as speech, but it served to alert him, and send him out to the drop site, a spot he'd designated near the compound's wall. He went.  
  
Lying in the snow was a small recorder. He picked it up, and started the tape.  
  
"Tsumane-san," said the voice of the Shadow Dragon Master of Masters. Harachisa was his name, a powerful man, and deadly warrior, whose skill with the nunchuka was unmatched by any man alive. Orders directly from him were rare.  
  
The tape continued. "We have monitored your progress carefully, and we have decided you know enough. You are to return to us.  
  
"But first, Tsumane, we want you to do a single task. You have learned the secrets of the Ghost Crane. You can teach these secrets to us. It is not profitable for us that the Ghost Crane sensei remain alive. Kill him, or you will be dead to us. Recording ends, device will self-destruct. Bury the debris."  
  
Well. This simplified things. He'd take a hardline approach, and when he left, he'd have Shakiko with him, willing or not.  
  
He waited for the time-released acid pack to do its work, immolated the wrecked machine, and went back to a sound sleep. 


	12. Ireland

Westward we went, taking advantage of Bruce Wayne's wealth to smooth our way. Customs did not interfere, and the private aircraft of Wayne Enterprises were at our disposal. But even when we set foot on my native island, I could not shake a sense of foreboding. Some evil, I was certain, was coming hard on our heels...  
  
Chapter 12  
Ireland  
  
Bruce Wayne and Donal Mac Namara stood, bags in hand, waiting for the return of Dick Grayson, who had stepped out for a bite to eat at the airport's food court.   
  
"Hi, guys. I got some souvenirs." They turned to see the compact young man, who had a shopping bag in hand.  
  
"T-shirts for everyone. Here you go, Donal."  
  
The monk examined the cotton garment dubiously, and cocked an eyebrow at the slogan emblazoned on it. "'Kiss me, I'm Irish?'"  
  
Dick grinned. "I thought you'd like it. Bruce." He tossed his mentor a second bundle.  
  
"'Superman is a wimpy putz?'"  
  
"Had to pay double to get it in your size. Wear it to the next JLA meeting."  
  
"I just might. What did you get for yourself?"  
  
Dick reached into the bottom of the bag, and produced a final shirt. It was bright red, with green sleeves, and a yellow 'R' on the left breast.  
  
"Nostalgia?" Bruce lifted one eyebrow high.  
  
Donal coughed loudly. "Pardon me, your superheroic excellencies, but we do have places to go, and quickly. The rental car service is this way." He started down a corridor.  
  
"Yes," said Bruce, "But the Wayne Enterprises limo is waiting for us this way." He gestured in the opposite direction.  
  
  
  
Another private aircraft had landed that day. A Lear jet, painted solid black, marked only with the number 13 on each side in red characters. From it emerged one tall elegant European man in a black suit, followed by five alert-looking Japanese. They passed through customs without a ripple, despite the fact that most of their baggage was made up of lethal weaponry and restricted chemical or biological substances. They, too, had a limousine ready for them, and drove quickly for a great distance, out into the uninhabited regions. There, miles from any other human habitation, was a grim stone tower.  
  
"Sumimasen, Magus-san, but what is this place, and how will our coming here aid us in our mission?" asked Shinochi Tsumane.  
  
"This, little ninja, is the central fortress of my Order. The Dark Circle. The other twelve Masters will be here, and we shall lay plans. Come, little ninja!" The tall sorcerer strode out of the automobile, followed closely by the compact assassin. The other four ninja tried to follow their leader as he passed inside the outer curtain wall, but the heavy oaken gate swung shut in their faces. No one had been near enough to touch it.  
  
"Stay here, ninja," came Simon Magus' voice, sourceless and vague. "Your master will come to no harm. Wait, and be patient!"  
  
They waited, and were patient.  
  
  
  
After they passed the last small village, Donal drove. "You might wish to resume your costumes before we arrive there. My brethren can be trusted with your secrets, but even so…"  
  
For three hours after that they went on through the countryside, until at last they came to a tiny shed on the rocky northern coast.  
  
"Kind of small, isn't it?" Nightwing remarked as he stepped out.  
  
"This is where we store the boat. The monastery is there." The monk pointed out over the sea, to a small rocky crag of an island stood, dark and hard. Donal pulled a set of keys out of his satchel, and unlocked the shed's door. The three of them dragged out the small boat, its mast folded down, a wooden handcrafted vessel that would not have looked out of place here a thousand years ago. They set sail.  
  
  
There were thirteen men in the dark stone room, thirteen black-robed, black-hearted men seated around a stone table carved with the pentagram goat's-head. Simon Magus was one of their number. Behind him in the shadows stood Tsumane.  
  
"Well, Magus? You have expended considerable resources in this quest for the cross, risked a very great deal for a very dubious return, and now you have brought this stranger into our most secret councils. What have you to say, Magus?"  
  
Simon Magus let the question hang in the air for a time before answering. "I say, Charles McCoy, that you are my peer, not my master. I will say further that I have not risked so much, that the returns will be unimaginably vast, and that this stranger is our ally, and a very effective one. My fellow mages! I present to you Shinochi Tsumane, ninja of the Shadow Dragon clan, and the man who will get us the cross." Magus leaned back in his chair and poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher at his elbow, raised it to his mouth, and then said, almost as an afterthought, "He will also be instrumental in the destruction of the Brotherhood of the Hidden way."  
  
  
Donal drew the boat up at a weathered but solid old wooden quay, and tied it fast. The three men, all clad in their dark costumes, were hardly visible in the gathering dusk as they went up the rocky trail, Donal leading the way towards a faint light at the summit of the crag.  
  
They reached the top, and found themselves before a small chapel, ancient and battered by seasons and weather.  
  
"Actually, I think the boat shed might have been bigger," said Nightwing.  
  
"Appearances, my friend, can be deceiving." Donal opened the main door, and strode in. There was light within.  
  
Batman and Nightwing followed behind him, and found themselves in a brightly illumined and well-maintained sanctuary, with antique hardwood pews, and a plain altar. They were not alone.  
  
"Welcome, Donal my son. Have you then fulfilled your quest?" The speaker was a tall white-haired man, his body lean and his face lined, dressed in a simple brown robe, leaning on a long wooden staff.  
  
The warrior monk kneeled at the man's feet. "I have, Father Abbot. The Cross of Padraic has been reclaimed."  
  
The old man bent and lifted Donal to his feet. "You have done well, my son. And you have brought friends?" He looked at the two vigilantes standing in the doorway.  
  
"These, father, are Batman and Nightwing, from America. Without their aid, I would have failed in my mission, and the cross would be in the hands of a great evil."  
  
"I see you have quite a tale to tell, Donal. Come, be welcome in our humble monastery! Jesu's blessing be upon you, entering and leaving."  
  
"You're right. This is a very humble monastery." Nightwing inspected the chapel, which was made cramped by the four of them.  
  
The abbot smiled. "Come, my young friend. Perhaps you will yet see some things which may impress you." The old man walked to the altar, and twisted one of the candles. The altar slid back smoothly, revealing a narrow stone stairway that descended beneath the chapel's floor. 


	13. Servants of Light, Servants of Dark

Och, but it was good to be home again! The good Father Abbot gave us all good welcome, and showed our guests the more fascinating points of our monastery while the celebratory feast was being prepared. Yet even so, there was an unrest in my spirit. Some evil, I thought, was coming hard upon us. Sadly, I proved right.  
  
Chapter Thirteen  
Servants of Light, Servants of Dark  
  
Centuries ago, when Saint Patrick was still laboring at his great work, he realized something: there would always be an opposition. The Church of Rome fought him for control, the bishops more concerned with the tithes of the Irish than their souls. Among the princes of the Gael, some listened with an open mind, respecting the Christians even if they disagreed with them, but many feared the new faith as a potential threat to their authority. And among the druids, who had devoted countless generations to the pursuit of truth and wisdom, were divided. Many embraced the way of Jesu as the fulfillment of their search, and joined with Patrick, but many others clung tight to the old ways. Of these latter, there were several who had become accustomed to the power they held from their association with the gods, and did not like this new God, who claimed to sweep the lesser gods away like dust on the wind. Many, indeed, were the enemies surrounding Patrick of Ireland, and he knew that there was a need to counter it.  
  
It was Patrick who created the Brotherhood of the Hidden Way, an order that would stand as a shield to protect the White Martyrs, as those first Irish saints were called. He chose the bravest, the most steadfast of his converts, and gave them the charge to preserve the Holy Light against the Darkness that opposed it. They were priests, warriors, bards, and common men whose only gift was their faith.  
  
They were banded together in the wilds of the northern coast, and on a rocky island they built for themselves a fortress like no other. A fortress built not upon the rocky crag, but within it.  
  
******  
  
The main hall of the monastery echoed with the sandal slaps of the monks and the boots of the visitors. Nightwing stared up in amazement at the vaulted ceiling; the great stained glass windows, and the intricately carved walls and pillars. It was a very cathedral, hidden within the stone heart of the mountain.  
  
"Are you impressed yet, my young friend?" The abbot smiled at the masked warrior.  
  
"How do you get the windows lit?" asked Nightwing, gazing at them in awe. The windows along the left-hand side told in sequence the story of the creation, and man's rebellion. The windows on the right told how God mended the rift between himself and his creations, by sacrificing himself upon the cross.  
  
"There are many shafts leading up to the surface, small niches in the mountainside. You would have to be watching for them to find them, and they are barred with iron, but they let in the sun. At night, we use electric lights behind the windows."  
  
"It's magnificent."  
  
"Aye," Donal nodded. "It is that. Sure and it's good to be home."  
  
The old abbot chuckled dryly. "Come, Donal. Let us show your friends the vaults."  
  
******  
  
Deep they went, down and down into the very heart of the mountain. At the bottom of the last stone stairway was a great iron door. The abbot drew a set of keys from his belt, and opened a series of locks, then pushed the massy door open.  
  
"Gentlemen, what you are about to behold, few have beheld. What you are about to see, few have seen. There are secrets here that could shatter the world were they to fall into the wrong hands. If not for the fact that Donal vouches for you absolutely, you would not be permitted to know of this chamber's existence." He let them in.  
  
There were pedestals carved out of the living rock, deep-graven with knotwork all along their surfaces, each illumined by a patch of light, let in by narrow skylights overhead. There were perhaps a dozen of them, and upon each rested an object.  
  
The abbot walked to the first pedestal, where a bent and rusted iron rod with a triangular head rested. "When Jesu was crucified, the centurion, Longinus, pierced his side with his spear. Blood and clear liquid flowed from his side. This spear was found during the First Crusade, and they used it to bless a great number of atrocities performed in Jesu's name. We retrieved it, and kept it safe."  
  
He strode up to the next artifact, a block of wood. Nightwing stared at it, noticed a pair of dark-stained holes on either end. "Is that what I think it is?"  
  
The abbot nodded gravely. "The Holy Rood. On this very crosspiece was Jesu nailed to die. This too was rescued from the Crusaders, before they could do too much evil with it."  
  
They surveyed the room, beholding numerous objects, rare and holy, ranging from the sword with which King David had taken Goliath's head as a trophy, to the robe that Jesus had worn when standing before the Sanhedrin. At last they stood in front of the last artifact, mounted on a pedestal higher than any other. It was a battered and tarnished tin cup, worn with centuries and stained dark, the color of ancient dried blood. Even Batman was awed as he realized what the vessel must be.  
  
"Jesu was about thirty-three years old, and had been teaching for some time. He had gathered around him disciples, and the twelve who were closest to him followed him to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover. They borrowed a room from a man called Joseph of Aramathea, a tin merchant and member of the Sanhedrin. He was also a secret disciple of Jesu." The abbot's voice was soft but sure, weaving his tale such that his listeners could almost see the events of two thousands years ago.  
  
"In the upper chamber of Joseph's home, Jesu and the twelve observed the Seder, and at the end, he said to them 'come, break this bread, and eat it, for it is my body. Soon, my body will be broken, just as this bread is.' And he poured wine from the flagon into this cup, and passed it around the table. 'Drink this wine,' he said, 'for it is my blood. Soon my blood will be spilled, just like this wine, spilled so that you can live. Drink, and whenever you meet together again, eat the bread, drink the wine, and remember me.' They ate, and drank, but they did not yet understand."  
  
The old man picked up the cup and stared at it. "All happened as he said. That very night, Judas Iscariot sold him to the Pharisees, who hated him. They in turn handed him over to the Romans, who feared him. And the Romans nailed him up on a cross, where he died. Joseph wept to see his teacher suffering so, and when Longinus thrust his pilum into Jesu's heart, Joseph stood by, and caught the blood in the cup that his Lord had drunk from."  
  
The abbot set the Grail down, and turned away. "You know, doubtless, how Jesu rose from death, and ascended to heaven. After that, Joseph, taking the Grail with him, went west. He first brought Christianity to Britain, and the Grail rested on the altar of the church he built."  
  
He led them out of the chamber, slowly closing the great door. "It is another tale entirely, how it was lost, and how one of our order recovered it, coming through great perils to bring it to safety here. Another tale we have no time for. Come! The welcome feast is made ready! Tonight we celebrate, and tomorrow we consecrate this new treasure before laying it to rest in it's place of safety."  
  
******  
  
There was stunned silence followed by a loud uproar. Simon Magus simply sat back, sipped his water, and savored the pandemonium.  
  
Charles McCoy stood, very still as he stared at the calm sorcerer. He waved a hand, and the cacophony was silenced. "Do you mean to tell us, Magus, that you intend not only to steal this relic, but to obliterate the Hidden Way as well? Have you gone completely mad?"  
  
"Sit down, McCoy. Such excitability ill befits a mage of the Dark Circle." Magus smiled. "Consider, how long has that band of monks upset our aims with their prayers and their agents? The Brotherhood has been a thorn in our side since the days of Maighoch the druid. Now we have an opportunity we may not have again. Tsumane, tell us about your device."  
  
The ninja stood at the round table, cold black eyes studying the assembled sorcerers. "While the cross was in my possession, I attached a completely untraceable tracking device. My people have devised a special substance, a liquid containing micro-electric filaments. It is essentially a microchip in liquid form, hooked up to a GPS satellite. I spread a film of this liquid on the cross' surface, allowing us to track it wherever it goes." The ninja took a seat, uninvited. "We've taken satellite photos of the location, an island off the northern coast. We believe that they are underground."  
  
"Underground?" McCoy asked, incredulous. "From what we know of the Brotherhood, they will be heavily fortified. How can we assault an underground fortress, even with our magic and your infiltrating skills?"  
  
Simon Magus answered for Tsumane. "I have studied all I could of the Brotherhood. I believe that they will hold a sunrise ceremony, to consecrate the relic before they place it in the vault. There will be a small group of them, outside the walls with the cross. The abbot will doubtless be among them."  
  
Tsumane nodded. "We ambush them, kill them, and take the cross. We will then control the entrance to their fortress, and they will be without a leader. Ripe for slaughter."  
  
McCoy nodded. "I like the sound of that. We'll need more muscle, though."  
Another sorcerer added his voice. "We have muscle aplenty. Muscle is cheap, and we are wealthy."  
  
Magus nodded. "Indeed, Perigrinus. But more than that. We shall call on demons, and they shall possess the bodies of our chosen servants. They will be the assault force with which we shall crush the Brotherhood."  
  
McCoy nodded. "Let us prepare then. Sunrise tomorrow, we will annihilate the foe. Now come, and let us drink to victory!" 


	14. The Kiss of Judas

Treachery. That was the ninja's nature. He was not the purely evil being that Magus was, but he was selfish, amoral, and dangerous. Bruce Wayne could bear out the truth of this, from sorrowful experience.  
  
Chapter fourteen  
The Kiss of Judas  
  
They sat, all of them, in a semicircle around the sensei's dais. The dojo was cold, but none shivered. They had been well trained.  
  
The master ordered them to pair up, and spar with the nunchukas. Bruce and Tsumane did not face each other, and were the first to defeat their respective opponents.  
  
"Well done. Now, face each other. What weapons will you have?" The ancient teacher waved his other students to the side as he regarded the two antagonists.  
  
"If it is acceptable, Sensei," Tsumane bowed deeply, "I would spar with the edged katanas."  
  
The bushy white eyebrows went up over the wrinkled slits of the master's eyes. "A dangerous game, Tsumane. I wonder if the two of you can be trusted to restrain yourselves. Very well, if Burusu-san is willing, you shall used the live blades."  
  
Bruce bowed even more deeply than Tsumane. "It is acceptable to me, sensei."  
  
"Good. Now take your weapons and begin!" The old man took the sheathed swords from their rack, and handed them to the two young warriors. They stepped apart the appropriate five paces, knelt, and then stood, drawing the razor-edged blades and cutting vertically in a single smooth motion. Bruce parried the other sword, lunged, and with a loud kiai disengaged and cut. A thin red line appeared on Tsumane's cheek.  
  
"You have blooded me, gaijin. It will never happen again." Tsumane entered hasso no kamae, sword held vertically, with the hilt a fist's span from the face. His eyes never left Bruce's as he moved, stepping in and, with a cut that was almost invisibly fast, split the fabric of Bruce's gi. Blood welled from the cut, and blood was on the edge of the blade.  
  
"Have a care! Remember, this is practice!" The sensei watched them carefully, standing a little space away, leaning on his staff.  
  
The two youths circled, scanning for any sign of weakness, any opening they could exploit. Tsumane's hard eyes caught a slight lagging of Bruce's left foot, and moved that way, trying for a wrist cut. Bruce then pivoted, sluggishness vanished as though it never was, and tore Tsumane's sleeve as the other man cut only air.  
  
For a moment that felt like an hour, the two stood there. Then Tsumane made his move. Rather than lunging at Bruce, he spun, and ran like mad for the sensei, blade held high. The students, Bruce included, were too astounded by the insane act to respond.  
  
Tsumane swung at his teacher's head, but the old man was no longer there. He spun to face the sensei, but even as he pivoted he felt the blow of a staff on his left wrist. One-handed he swung, and the staff parried. He tried a kick, but hit nothing. Another blow from the staff rendered his left leg numb, but he still stood, and swung again.  
  
This time, he anticipated the sensei's movement, and caught the staff with his left hand. A sharp pain told him that he'd broken a carpal bone, but he didn't care. With one smooth stroke, he severed the ancient warrior's neck, and let the wrinkled head fall to the ground.  
  
Time seemed to stand still. Then all at once things began to happen. The body dropped, fountaining life-blood across the dojo's tatami floor. The students leapt for Tsumane, with whatever weapon was nearest to hand. Bruce ran at the murderer with ready sword. Away from the great commotion, a door opened, and Shakiko stepped in to behold her father lying dead, his blood on Tsumane's sword.  
  
Aside from Tsumane and Bruce, there were ten students of the Yurei Tsuru master. The first to reach the assassin had a jitte, the iron club with a metal tongue designed to catch and break swords. He had will, skill, and spirit. Tsumane had superior reach. The katana gutted the man and his truncheon fell to the ground beside his dying body.   
  
The next two came simultaneously a split-second later, nunchukas in hand. The ninja cut them down with a single Swallowtail cut and immediately moved on to the next attacker, who carried a bo staff. Tsumane ducked the first wild swipe and buried his sword in the man's throat.  
  
Three of the remaining six were empty-handed. Not even the training of the dead sensei equipped them to battle an armed ninja. They tried anyway, and added to the pile of corpses.  
  
Now there were five men left alive in the room, and all held swords. Tsumane took the offensive this time, and executed a rapid doh cut across one man's belly with lethal precision. He then grabbed the jitte from where it lay on the ground, and with it he caught another's sword. With a wrenching twist, he snapped the hard steel, even as he struck down the swordsman with his katana.  
  
Bruce and the other survivor coordinated their attack, coming simultaneously from two different angles. Tsumane bolted, running until he came to the wall, then continuing, jogging up the surface as high as he could go, and grabbing one of the rafter beams. He pulled a small flat dagger from the heel of his slipper, and tossed it into the student's throat, then ran across the roof beam, dropping down almost on top of Bruce. With a mighty clash they came together, sparks flying from the grating blades. The shock of impact threw both men to the ground, and sent the katanas sliding away. Tsumane was the first to his feet.  
  
"Sumimasen, Burusu-san, but I must leave now. If our paths ever cross again, perhaps we can finish this fight. Until then, sayonara!" The traitor turned, ran smoothly and easily across the blood-slick floor, and headed towards the door. Bruce tried to follow, but he lost his footing on the slick straw matting, and fell over into a pile of slaughtered meat that had been a fellow pupil and friend. He was suddenly overcome with nausea, and began vomiting.  
  
Shakiko had witnessed the massacre, to shocked to move. She stood there in the doorway yet when the murderer reached it. His white gi was drenched in blood, and he smelled like an abattoir.   
  
"Come, my dear," he said as he seized her arm in a bloody hand. "We must be going." Shakiko writhed in his grip.  
  
"Oh, I realize that you might be a little perturbed." He applied a quick nerve pinch, and she went limp. "No matter. In time, you will learn to appreciate me. Or not. It really doesn't matter." He slung her over his shoulder, and headed off.  
  
Bruce recovered himself and began to pursue, taking his bloodied sword with him. He had hated and despised the crime of murder above all else ever since he had come of age, at eight years old, kneeling in a puddle of his parent's blood. Yet now, with the thought of his sensei's murder, the student's decimation, and Shakiko's captivity alight in his mind, he swore that he would kill the ninja if he had the chance.  
  
He followed them, just out of sight, through the main gate, tracks bloody in the snow. He pursued with all his strength, until at last he came to the clearing where Tsumane had stopped.  
  
The traitor was boarding a helicopter, an army surplus Chinook, Shakiko slung over his shoulder like a rice sack. Bruce howled like a man possessed, and charged, sword swinging. He was almost in time.  
  
In the air over the bloody, sobbing figure of Bruce Wayne, Shinochi Tsumane was struck by an inspiration. He studied the unconscious girl. Yes, he still wanted her. But as he studied the crumpled form, her realized three things. First, what he felt was lust, strong but short-lived. Once he had taken her, it would doubtless pass. Second, part of his obsession with her sprang from his natural rivalry with the gaijin. Burusu wanted her, so Tsumane also wanted her. Third, there was an opportunity here, a chance to sate his lust, and strike a blow against his rival at the same time. He headed up to the cockpit.  
  
"Pilot, would you mind hovering here for about a half-hour?"  
  
"Eh. Got enough fuel. Take your time. Why?"  
  
"Your job is to fly, not to question."  
  
Shinochi returned to the cargo compartment, and slapped Shakiko until she returned to consciousness. He was going to enjoy this.  
  
  
Bruce Wayne gradually realized that the helicopter was still there, just out of reach, taunting him. It enraged him beyond what he could endure, but there it sat, taunting him wit his helplessness, just out of reach.  
  
He stared at the two-rotor helicopter and cursed bitterly, fingering his blood-drenched katana. Time seemed to vanish, followed closely by sanity, and finally, mercifully, emotion. He was psychically numb.  
  
That changed when he saw something dropped from the helicopter's side. He watched numbly as it fell, landing in the snow a little ways away. He crawled over there with trepidation, already suspecting what he would find.   
  
She had been raped, repeatedly. Then mutilated, savagely. Then at last, mercifully, her slender pale throat had been cut. Bruce saw a note, held to her broken naked body with a dagger blade. He unfolded the bloodied paper, and read its contents.  
  
'Does it hurt, gaijin, to know that I possessed her, while you did not? Does it hurt you to know how much she suffered before she died? I hope so. Until we meet again. Tsumane Shinochi.' 


	15. Blood and Iron

We were so happy that morning, those of us who climbed to the pinnacle of the crag, to greet the dawn, and reconsecrate the cross that had been St. Patrick's. The night before, we had feasted, celebrating the quest's triumphal conclusion with roasted meat, fresh bread, and the fine ale of the monastery. Even Batman loosened his grim demeanor that evening.  
  
The morning was gray, touched with crimson in the east as we set out. It seemed like a day of triumph, of glory, where nothing could go wrong for us. Och, how wrong we were!  
  
Chapter Fifteen  
Blood and Iron  
  
There were ten men who strode up the rocky slope in the gray dawning. Batman and Nightwing, masked and costumed, strode alongside Donal and the Abbot. Behind and before them went six of the Brotherhood, chosen for the great honor of escorting the cross. All the monks, including Donal and the Abbot, wore swords at their sides, as was the custom of the Brotherhood when outside the safety of their monastery.  
  
The ascended the slope until at last, Abbot at the fore, they came to the very tip of the island's upthrust heart. There was a broad flat expanse on the pinnacle of the mountain, clearly shaped by human hands, the work of centuries past. There was room, perhaps, for fifty men to have assembled there atop the peak. There were mighty pillars of living rock set regularly around the edge of the leveled top, and in the center was a solid stone altar, cross-shaped and solid, rising out of the rock floor as a solid part of the mountain.  
  
The sun began to come up, burning the ocean scarlet as the old Abbot knelt before the altar, placing the cross of gold upon the cross of stone. A single shaft of light, piercing the pillars eastward, shone upon the altar, making the gold blaze with a fiery light.  
  
The monks knelt in a semi-circle around the altar, the two vigilantes in the background, as the Abbot began to chant a hymn: "Praise be to the Most High, Ruler of Heaven and Earth, and praise for the works of his hands!"  
  
The monks responded as one "Praise Him, the Lord God of Hosts."  
  
"Praise be to Jesu the Christ, Redeemer and Intercessor, and praise be to the Lamb That Was Slain!"  
  
"Worthy is the Lamb That Was Slain."  
  
Praise be to the Holy Spirit, Constant Companion, and praise be to the Indwelling Fire!"  
  
"Glory unto the Holy Trinity, the Triune God."  
  
The Abbot stood, white hair whipping in the wind, and began to pray in Gaelic. The monks chanted prayers along with him, and the prayers built to a crescendo, the chanting reverberating among the rocks. The sun shone red on the ocean's horizon, and the wind whistled among the stony crags. Even Batman felt that there was something here, a quiet power, faith perhaps, perhaps the God they had faith in. There was a holiness in the moment, a holiness that shook the air like a chime.  
  
Then, suddenly, the moment was broken as a whistling sound came across the stone place, and the Abbot fell back with a groan. There was a black-shafted arrow in his chest.  
  
Batman, Nightwing, and the monks whirled to face the arrow's source. There, ranged along the north face of the stone place, were a band of men. At the head were five black-clad men, faces masked, and armed with a variety of lethal weapons. Behind them were a full dozen huge muscular men, eyes hollow, as though not themselves. They wielded axes, crowbars, picks and cudgels. Alongside the ninjas, a tall man in black robes stood, eyes alight with hellfire.  
  
The lead ninja tossed aside the short horn bow he held, and reached for his katana. "I think, Burusu-san, that this shall be our last meeting. Only one of us will leave this place alive."  
  
Things began to happen all at once. Batman snatched up the fallen Abbot's broadsword, and lunged at Tsumane, steel clashing against hardened steel, sparks scattering. The other ninja warriors led the possessed men in a furious attack on the cluster of monks. And Simon Magus raised his arms, cried out words of power, mustering all the energies of darkness he could rally to himself. Lightning came down from the clear sky, a single mighty bolt of fire that struck the tiny weathered chapel at the bottom of the trail. The building was destroyed in a single blast, the stone stairway sealed for the time being.  
  
The monks were trained for battle, but outnumbered and faced with the like of the Shadow Dragon ninjas, they stood little chance. One ninja carried a pair of escrima sticks, another a bo staff, a third nunchukas, and the fourth a katana. The staff-fighter used his reach to separate the youngest of the monks, a man named Seamus, and began pushing towards the cliffside. The swordsman simply attacked, killing one monk in seconds, then moving on to another. The stick fighter and the nunchuka man worked as a team, striking from behind whenever an opportunity presented itself. The demon-possessed men simply charged, striking anything and everything in their path.  
  
Nightwing fought alongside the monks, his sticks a dark blur in his gauntleted hands. He fought his way through the mob of possessed men, leaving three unconscious, and launched himself at the stick-fighting ninja.  
  
Donal wielded his sword as if it were a part of him, parrying, dodging, thrusting and slashing. It seemed to the young monk that he had trained all his life for this battle. He knew the lost look in the possessed men's eyes, and did not kill any of them. They were only pawns. He disarmed, wounded, and fought defensively. The enemy, not bound by such scruples, struck to kill with their makeshift armaments.   
  
Batman and Tsumane dueled ferociously, well apart from the other combatants. The two swords flashed in the dawning sun, and the masked warriors struck with all their might and will, eyes locked and spirits straining. Batman launched a slashing lunge, but the ninja caught and parried. Tsumane's responding thrust was unsuccessful as well, however, as Batman beat the curved blade aside. They circled, neither willing to give ground, neither able to gain an advantage.  
  
Nightwing caught three quick blows from the ninja's sticks, then responded with a single shattering blow to the left temple. The shadow warrior crumpled, like a marionette with its strings cut. He then ran to the aid of young Seamus, who still held out against the staff-wielding warrior, albeit just barely. The monk was dangerously near the edge of the cliff, and gradually giving ground. Bludhaven's defender came at the ninja from behind, and the staff-fighter was forced to turn and meet the new threat. Seamus seized the opportunity, and dropped the ninja with a low cut that hamstrung him. Monk and vigilante moved back into the melee.  
  
Donal broke through the pressing mob, leaving two enemies disabled. He looked at Magus, who stood at the trail, calling on his dark magics. The sorcerer raised a great whirling wind of flame, cutting off the only route of escape from the open battlefield. The mage then turned, and strode towards the altar, where Padraic's Cross lay glowing in the sunlight. Donal leapt between the dark man and his prize.   
  
Magus laughed. "Little monk, do you really think you can bar me from my triumph? I have labored too long, and too mightily to let an insect like you deflect me."  
  
Donal Mac Namara, Brother of the Hidden Way, stood like a statue, sword held at the ready. "I can do all things through Him who strengthens me."  
  
"I've read your scriptures as well, monk. They are myths and lies that enshroud a feeble and idiotic moral code. You will need more than that to face me." He advanced.  
  
Donal took his sword, and thrust it point first into the rock. The blade of hardened steel slid through the earth easily, steel glowing with more than sunlight. The wrought iron guards and leather-wrapped hilt stood cruciform before the monk. "He that lives by the sword dies by the sword."  
  
There were four monks lying dead on the ground, but Nightwing and the other fought on. The monks did their best to hold back the possessed men without killing, using the flats of their blades, and their fists and feet whenever possible. Even so, two of the wizard's slaves had been cut down. Of the others, Nightwing and Donal had felled five between them, and another two were beaten down by the monks. Seamus, the youngest, and Dugal the blademaster fought back to back against the three.  
  
Nightwing, for his part, tried to defeat the remaining ninjas. He used his taser to drop the nunchuka wielder, then leapt against the swordsman. The vigilante moved smooth and swift, parrying the deadly strokes of razor-edged steel, striking with sharp quick blows at the ninja's arms and torso. The ninja switched tactics, aimed a crushing slash directly at one stick, and hit it straight on, severing it. The now-notched swordblade came up and around in a head cut, and when Nightwing blocked it, the swordsman kicked him in the thigh.  
  
Again and again Batman lunged, and again and again was he repulsed. Tsumane, a man devoted to self-preservation above all else, was a master of defensive combat. Batman threw off his cape, and wrapped the double-layered kevlar around his right forearm. The ninja reacted at last to one of Batman's attacks, lunging fox-quick with a sharp cut that opened the Dark Knight's chest. Blood oozed from a shallow cut, but he didn't mind. Tsumane had compromised his position, and he had the chance he had been waiting for. He brought the broadsword down on the ninja's exposed side, laying a deep gash across the ribs, some of which were cracked by the raw force of the blow.  
  
"I blooded you, Tsumane. You said that I would never do that again."  
  
The ninja laughed, and swung at Batman again.  
  
Monk and magician faced each other across the steel cross, both seeming to be filled with otherworldly radiance. Magus was literally wreathed in sorcerous flames, eyes blazing with the demonic hell-power that he embraced. Donal could not have been more different. The young Celt's battle-rage had faded, and it had been replaced with a calmer, purer energy. There was nothing physically manifest, but there seemed to be a brightness on him.  
  
"By Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, I bind the hosts of Lucifer that surround you!" The mage flinched slightly, the fire diminishing around him slightly, but the moment passed.  
  
"By the Prince of this world, be blasted!" The flame burst forth from Magus' body, and engulfed the young monk.  
  
"You will walk through the fires, and will not be burned, the flames will not set you ablaze," quoted the holy man. The tongues of hellfire faded away from him. "By God, by Jesu the Redeemer, begone!" The dark man fell back a step.  
  
A huge possessed man with a massively immense double-bitted axe swept at Seamus and Dugal from one side, while a smaller man with a crowbar came at them from the other. A third man, swinging a spike baseball bat, completed the enemy complement. Seamus, with youth's recklessness, lunged for the bat-wielder, catching the wooden weapon with his blade. The sword caught in the wood, and the man twisted it until the monk lost his grip, and the possessed man threw down the bat and lunged with bare hands. Dugal, meanwhile, whirled and cut the crowbar man across the arm, weakening his grip. He struck again, the bar fell, and the blademaster kicked the man in the chin. Then he met with the axe carrier.  
  
Nightwing used his remaining stick to fend off the ninja's blows, but he was slowly being worn down, and he knew it. He somersaulted backwards, snapping a pair of wingdings free of his gauntlet while in mid-air. On landing, he launched the tiny projectiles at the ninja, aiming for the face. The man flinched, as Nightwing had hoped, and he leapt inside the swordsman's guard and snapped the stick down with all his strength, breaking the man's arm. He followed with a smashing blow on the jaw, leaving the man out cold.  
  
Tsumane had pulled a small dagger, and somehow managed to embed it in Batman's side. Both men now were covered with small cuts and large cuts, bleeding from countless wounds and staggering with fatigue. Both were still filled with battle-lust. Batman drew a batarang and line, and began to spin it like a fighting chain, keeping Tsumane out of range and off balance. The ninja calculated his timing, then snapped his sword up at just the right angle, not only severing the line, but also sending the batarang spinning back at Batman. The Caped Crusader knocked the projectile aside, then was bowled over by Tsumane's charge. The two men fell to the ground, weapons lost, struggling in a barehanded wrestling match.  
  
Simon Magus rallied himself, and called down a mighty curse upon Donal. The monk was thrown back by the blast of magic, and the wizard sprang forward. Donal struggled to his feet, shouting prayers of binding and exorcism, but Magus ignored the writhing pain that these invocations caused him and kept heading for the altar, and his prize.  
  
Seamus rolled across the ground, struggling unarmed with the possessed man. He finally got the upper hand and punched the fellow in the chin.   
  
Dugal lost his left arm at the elbow to the first stroke of that mighty axe, swung by hands with diabolical strength. A lesser man might have succumbed to pain and shock but Dugal was the greatest warrior in a Brotherhood filled with warriors. Muttering a prayer of thanksgiving for his being still alive, he swung his sword one-handed, cutting the axe haft clear through near the head. He swung the sword with all the strength in his remaining arm, connecting against the possessed man's temple with the flat of the blade. Then, enemy felled, he had leisure to topple over.  
  
Nightwing rushed to the still-living monks. Seamus was battered and almost unconscious, probably suffering from a concussion, but he would last. Dugal, on the other hand, needed work. Nightwing used a length of jump cable as a tourniquet, then bandaged the wound as best he could with antiseptic bandages from his emergency medkit.   
  
Batman punched Tsumane with all the force in his body, and the ninja was thrown backwards. Batman was also toppled by his blow, and Tsumane was up first. The ninja kicked Batman in the head, and only the plastic cranial shield kept Batman from a concussion. He rose to his feet and kneed Tsumane in the belly. When the ninja folded over, he dragged Batman down with him, and the two rolled across the ground, struggling with all the energy they had left.  
  
Donal Mac Namara stood speechless in fear and wonderment as the black-hearted sorcerer took the cross up from its resting place. Magus lofted the holy artifact on high, where the morning sun blazed upon its knotwork. There seemed to be a terrible silence that lasted all eternity.  
  
"Idiotic little fool! Now, I shall blast you with the fires of both Heaven and Hell, joined together! You and your feeble-minded God have failed!" A great wind rose up, and a whirling dust storm enfolded Simon Magus as he began to chant his grim spell. Donal was too astonished even to pray.  
  
There was a great flash of light, and a peal of thunder, and the magician toppled to the ground, screaming in pain. All along his hands, wherever he touched the cross, flame sprang up. The Cross of Padraic fell to earth at the feet of Donal Mac Namara. The monk took up the cross, and it was cool in his hands.  
  
"Do not be deceived; God is not mocked." The mage rolled in the dust, and beat out the fires on his hands. They were red and blistered, but not too badly harmed.  
  
Donal seemed transformed by a holy light. His eyes were righteous flames, his whole body a sacrificial pyre. The wind arose around him, and he stood over the sorcerer.  
  
"Demons!" He said in a voice like seven thunders and seven trumpets, "rebels against the Most High who have made this man your slave!" Magus, a broken man, writhed in the dust, hissing. "In Jesu's name you are ordered out! Depart his body, abandon his soul! Leave this realm and never return! Go on to the Abyss that awaits you! BEGONE!"  
  
Simon Magus, once a sorcerer and master of men, lay unconscious and feeble in the dust. His power was no more.  
  
Batman was beginning to believe that this battle would never end, when his hand fell upon the hilt of the ninja's sword. He twisted then, and threw Tsumane down before, him, and held the razor-keen steel at his throat.   
  
"I made a vow once, Tsumane. I vowed that I would see you die." The ninja stared him in the face. Their masks had slipped aside during the struggle, and they looked upon each other as they had years ago, naked face to naked face. The ninja waited stoically for his death to come.   
  
"Bruce. You made another oath, Bruce. You vowed long ago, at your parent's sides, that you would never bring death to the world intentionally, but hinder death when you could. To protect, not to avenge." Bruce looked up, as did Tsumane. There stood Donal, alight with Grace, cross in his hands.   
  
"Bruce. There has been enough death in your life. Your parents. Shakiko. Jason. Must you add him to the list? Is damning his black soul really worth damning yourself along with him?"  
  
So much pain. So much loss. Bruce's eyes clouded with tears, and he stood, tossing the weapon aside.  
  
Tsumane rose, shakily. Then he calculated. Bruce was not far from the edge. A single good lunge, and maybe…  
  
No time for maybes. Tsumane threw himself at his ancient rival wholeheartedly. But somehow, Bruce found the strength, the will, to twist aside, using a Judo move to deflect Tsumane's momentum.  
  
The ninja tumbled to the ground, rolling until he came to rest by the edge. He stood, and glared at Bruce.   
  
"After all this time, you don't have the nerve. I'm disappointed in you, Gaijin-samurai." He looked like he was about to say more, but at that moment, a blur of motion swept into him from a completely unexpected direction. Two bodies tumbled over the edge.  
  
Bruce ran and snatched at the forms as they tumbled. He caught a wrist. Pulling carefully, he raised Simon Magus from the edge, where he had cast Shinochi Tsumane into the sea.  
  
"I told you I would get you for your treachery! I told you!" The fallen mage began to laugh insanely, rolling and writhing in the dust like a snake, roaring with the mirth of insanity.  
  
Donal lowered the cross, and strode to the altar, where the Abbot still lay. He knelt before his mentor and friend, and was again only Donal the humble monk.  
  
"Donal. My time's short."  
  
"Must it be so, Father Abbot?"  
  
"I taught you…Better than that, boy." The dying man chuckled. "I go to my rest now, my son. After long service, I go…To sit at the King's table. 'We do not…Mourn like the lost…Who have no hope.'"  
  
Tears welled in Donal's eyes. "I know, Father Abbot. Yet still…"  
  
"Still you'll miss this old man, eh? Well, you've no need of me. There'll have to be a new Abbot, of course…"  
  
"Who should it be, Father?"  
  
"Come, bring the others near. They should also hear it." Donal brought Seamus and Dugal, freshly bandaged and medicated by Nightwing, to kneel at the Abbot's side.  
  
"Listen, my sons. The new Abbot will be Donal Mac Namara."  
  
"Me? Father, no! Not me! I am young, not ready for-"  
  
"Hush, boy. You have the light of Grace on you. You will yet do great things for the Kingdom. Now go, and shepherd the flock. Let an old man go to his Maker in peace." The old man closed his eyes and lay back.  
  
Donal hefted the cross, and the Abbot's rod. "Come," he said to the others. "We must go and see to the other monks. He goes on to his reward, and needs no aid from us. Requiescat in pace, Pater." The five of them turned, and started down the trail. 


	16. Epilogue

And so we returned home. A great and tragic day it had been, and filled with changes. To this day, I am amazed by the good Father's choice of successor. Well, so be it. I was Abbot, and it was left to me to do an Abbot's tasks.  
  
Epilogue  
2 Timothy 4:7  
  
The monks of the Hidden Way had almost dug free of the collapsed stairway, and soon the battle-scarred warriors were taken into the shelter of the monastery. The Levin-bolt of the sorcerer had done little real harm. The main route out was clogged, the concealing chapel had been leveled, and most of the great windows were shattered, but no one was hurt, and the damage would be easily mended.  
  
Nightwing was marked fairly lightly, with nothing more than a body-wide bruise and a cut above the right eye. Seamus had several cracked ribs and a concussion, but the monastery's healers would soon mend him. Dugal the warrior had lost his arm, but would live and heal, and within the hour he was considering prosthetic options, his chief criterion being combat usefulness. Batman, for his part, was covered with sword cuts and bruises, with half his ribs and three fingers on his left hand broken. The blade wounds would knit, as would the bones, and there was no real danger of infection.  
  
Donal, wondrously, was unmarked, from crown of the head to soles of the feet. He had, indeed, never felt better. He calmly took charge, guided the labors of healing and repair, and arranged for the burials of the fallen.  
  
Four monks, Warriors of the Cross, were set to rest in the earth, their spirits free of the flesh. The good Abbot, for his part, was laid in the catacombs with the leaders who had gone before. In the deepest vault, there rested the bones of a legend, one sacred relic in a fortress filled with them.  
  
The possessed men who survived were themselves again, the mage's power over them gone. The monks did their best for them, tended their wounds, and did what they could to restore them to their lives. The fallen were buried with much sadness, and there was a great mourning over their deaths.  
  
The ninjas were bound, and handed over to the law, along with enough evidence to put them in prison for a long time. Those shadow warriors who fell to Celtic swords were burned according to Japanese custom, and the ashes were sent to the Shadow Dragon masters. Their leader's body was lost to the ocean at the bottom of the cliff, given up to tide and wave.  
  
Simon Magus was a broken man, and after his attack on Tsumane, he had shown no trace of violence.  
  
"He shall be kept here," Donal had decreed after much thought, "we shall care for him, and seek to restore him as best we can. Power gone, his mind burned out. He was mad, but fairly harmless now. Perhaps, someday, he will be able to undo some of the evil he has wrought in the world."  
  
"Good luck," had been Nightwing's doubtful response.  
  
"Ah, my friend, you still doubt the power of God. With Him, all things are possible."  
  
"Maybe so. But I'm glad I won't be on the same side of the world as him, just in case you turn out wrong."  
  
******  
  
The waves beat mercilessly upon the coast of Northern Ireland, cold and dark in the night. A single piece of flotsam, black and almost invisible in the black waters, was thrown onto the earth.  
  
He had been kept alive only by pain. Pain had kept him conscious, pain had fueled him as he struggled to shore. He was covered with deep cuts, and the salt water burned in a horrible torture that consumed his entire being. Had he been a lesser man, he would now be dead, or mad.  
  
He was neither. He was Shinochi Tsumane, and for the moment, at least, he still drew breath. With that breath he cursed the name of Bruce Wayne.  
  
The waves still beat over him, but he thought it was possible, although unlikely, that he could make it to higher ground before he collapsed and drowned.  
  
******  
  
The two masked figures stood beside the robed monk in the great chamber, and the three of them studied the glittering gold cross. The light from above caught the gold, in a thousand traceries of knotted fire along its surface. The quest was achieved.  
  
"I shall miss you, my friends," said Abbot Donal, turning to the two vigilantes. "We had a great adventure together, did we not?"  
  
Nightwing grinned. "I'll agree with you after the bruises heal, and I can sleep again."  
  
Donal laughed. "God be with you, warriors for justice. Yours is a lonely path, and your battles will be many and painful, but you shall overcome."  
  
"Goodbye, Donal, and good luck." Nightwing clapped him on the shoulder. "You don't have and easy job yourself."  
  
"How many times have I told you…"  
  
"I know. You can do all things through Christ who strengthens you."  
  
Batman stood before the Abbot. "On the cliff…" he seemed to have trouble saying any more.  
  
"Do not think on it too long. You conquered the anger, and the pain that have eaten at you for too long."  
  
"The pain is still there."  
  
"I know, my friend, I know. Embrace it, for it is what makes you Batman. But always remember this: You have mastered your pain, not it you. Now go, and continue to fight the good fight."  
  
He ushered them to the surface, and they parted company.  
  
******  
  
The young man stood, eyes filled with tears, before the stone pillar that guarded the ashes of Shakiko and her father. Beside him, a tall gray-haired man stood, and he mourned as well.  
  
"I couldn't save them, Alfred. Just like my parents. I couldn't save them."  
  
Alfred placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Master Bruce, you must not let yourself give in to self-torment. Do not tarnish their memories with reproaches that they would not want you to bear. Remember them, and what they taught you. Remember the lives they led, and the love you shared. That is how to honor the dead, not torturing yourself with your failure."  
  
The boy knelt at the grave, and remained there for a time. Then at last he stood, and turned to face his friend.  
  
"It still hurts, Alfred."  
  
"I know, Master Bruce. To this day, I feel the sting of your parent's loss, and my parent's loss. The pain will stay with you." The old man and the young man turned to walk back to the car. "The trick is to keep the pain from becoming bitterness."  
  
The walked on, and the snow covered their tracks.  
  
  
And so it was, the great quest for Padraic's Cross. For five years now, I have shepherded the Brotherhood of the Hidden Way, and we have done well. Batman and Nightwing guard their cities as warriors should. The Dark Circle has left us in relative peace, for the time that their darkness shall be quenched is not yet at hand. And so I, Abbot Donal Mac Namara, do close this chronicle, which shall be added to the archives of this Brotherhood. May Jesu be with you, and with us all.  
  
The End 


End file.
